


Beserker

by orphan_account



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Bad Parenting, F/M, Friendship/Love, Loss of Control, Loss of Parent(s), Suicide Attempt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "As for your question: that girl will protect Ivar better than you ever could, Queen Aslaug," the Seer mumbled through weathered lips and continued before the now excited mother could interrupt. "But he will love her more than you. Far, far more than you." (Ivar x OC)For all of the aspects of this story that may trigger people, a warning will be provided at the beginning of the chapter, and a non-explicit summary of the chapter will be provided at the end of it should you wish to know what happens.





	1. Chapter 1

Success by Vikings standards had always been tricky waters to navigate in Freydis’ eyes, as the deaths of countless Viking and women and children for the sake of fame and wealth was considered a success yet within days of returning home the warriors would begin to feel the sting of loneliness upon losing their families. Though only ten, the recent raids in the western seas left the girl doubting any raid could ever be deemed ‘successful’ after the callous butchering on both sides.

She had protested accompanying her father to the nth degree, even as they landed on the rough shores of Northumbria. Her skills in all weaponary was meager at best, and the thought of being left unguarded on the battlefield terrified her to the point of being crippled. Rather her talents lay in the art of needlework, not warfare. Often all her father could do was shake his head in disappoint that his only child had been born such a coward.

Though it seemed the blur that was a gutless attack on the Viking camp positioned miles behind the battle had changed his opinion of her. Freydis recalled very little of the night that left four Northumbrian soldiers mutilated and spared a number of defenseless women and children the horrific fates of those around them. She had blacked out, and when she came to the warmth of blood trickling down her face was all that was left to warm her in the cold English night. There were bodies on the ground, a splintered spear shaft in her hand and the roar of Viking warriors slaughtering the Northumbrian attackers. Only the rain beating down on her face woke her from the violet stupor.

‘Beserker’ they called her, dressed her in bearskins and praised the gods for such a gift. Her father in particular hollered at the celebrations and thanksgiving for granting his only child such a rare ability, though Freydis herself could only sit numbly as the festivities raged on around her.

Suddenly Freydis’ mind was wrenched from her own thoughts of the English raids and when she came to, all eyes were firmly centred on her, watching like hawks.

“-dis. Answer Queen Aslaug,” hissed a voice next to her ear, which she then recognised as her fathers. 

“W-What?” Freydis mumbled, clutching her wrist tightly as she glanced around to find the Great Hall had been filled to the brim with warriors, all watching for her reply. A few cracked grins and sniggered, whilst the rest continued to stare intently.

Then her eyes landed upon the willowy figure seated on the fur-covered throne who she could only guess was Queen Aslaug. As she had heard, the woman in question was stunning beyond words with kohl rimmed eyes so ensnaring that wasn’t hard to understand we she was called a witch. The demure smile on her face was serene but misplaced, as if to lull Freydis into a false sense of comfort.

“Forgive my child, she must be still recovering from the raids this summer,” her father Gudmund announced. “Her head is still not right.”

“My head is fine, father,” Freydis quipped under her breath.

The Queen tipped her head with her hands clasped and said, “Welcome back to Kattegat, you have all done well. And we welcome a new gift from the gods, to whom we shall thank tonight with a sacrifice. The Beserker Freydis has been granted to us at such a young age, surely should we not feast in honour of Odin for this?”

The crowd hollered and raised their mugs to the gods above, yet the woman’s eyes never strayed from Freydis nor did her posture change from that of a cat readying to pounce. Beside her stood her three sons, and the one crippled son was seated on the throne beside her. His cheeks were flushed red with tears, likely from a tantrum that had carried on prior to the celebrations. But he was small enough for his age, with skinny legs twisted by a curse that could not be hidden even by the hemp fabric of his pants. She tried not to stare for fear of angering the Queen, and so instead stared at her feet. 

Bodies swayed and passed by Freydis as she was left to stare at the weathered and nearly split leather of her boots. They were splattered with mud and crusted blood, too dirty to have worn to the feast. She felt a broad hand place itself between her shoulder blades and push her towards the dais upon which the Queen was seated. Without needing to look she could tell her father was eager to boast to the queen in order to gain favour in her eyes. Earl Ygraf’s wife and small son accompanied them.

“Queen Aslaug, may I introduce my daughter, Freydis. My only child,” Gudmund spoke over the crowd, his red beard shaking as he did. 

“The Beserker child, yes?”

The earl’s wife joined the conversation whilst gesturing to the son hoisted on her hip, “She saved the life of me and my son when soldiers attacked our camp.”

“I think they are just stories,” one of the smaller sons hissed, eyeing the ten year old with disdain. He was only one year older than her, yet his position as the King’s son and height built from the dais allowed him to stare her down.

She felt her face flush red with embarrassment, particularly since she couldn’t recall much of her rampage except for what she had been told. 

The Earl’s wife returned her attentions to the Queen and said, “They are not just stories, Queen Aslaug. I was there when the Englishmen attacked. The murdered our people with their new bows and butchered the children at their mothers’ breasts. My son and I only survived long enough for my husband and his men to return thanks to the Beserker.”

Aslaug eyed the child standing before her carefully, noting how she had already been dressed in the traditional bearskins of the Beserkers without being formally recognised by the Seer as such. The bear’s glass eyes stared at the woman, as if to challenge her scrutiny, though seemed too large for the ten-year-old girl. Her eyes were dark, like the waters beyond the bay, and so murky that the pupil was nearly swallowed up by its inky surrounding. But they were glazed over and the girl was miles away; harmless enough if controlled properly.

A plan was formulating in his mind, hidden by her steady and placid smile, albeit influenced by the alcohol that never left her system. Her father watched on expectantly, for what Aslaug could probably guess: he was not known to many in Kattegat, a lowly farmer flaunting his gifted child for the chance to increase his status. He would be simple enough to manipulate if given the opportunity.

However purchasing the girl’s loyalty would be a more time consuming task, as loyalties shifted like sand in that place. Aslaug’s eyes briefly flickered to her precious Ivar, who was seated beside her on the throne, then to the uninhabited throne of Ragnar to her right.

Then her smile broadened and she tilted her head towards Freydis, saying, “Why don’t you join my son’s and I for a drink, child?”

“She would be honoured to,” Gudmund replied in his daughter’s place as he nudged the dark-haired girl onto the dais. 

Freydis hesitantly stepped up on the dais before self-consciously glancing down to her disheveled clothes. The thin, itching fabric was splattered with blood as her father hadn’t wished for any doubt to be left in the Queen’s mind as to whether or not the child had actually seen battle. The embroidery that lined the hem of the tunic was fraying and the colours of the flower petals had dulled. She fingered the loose ends gingerly.

Queen Aslaug beckoned the girl closer and said, “Those patterns are wonderful, did your mother do that for you?”

“No… I did it last summer when Father was out raiding,” she mumbled under her breath.

“It is lovely, but that tunic needs to be changed,” she turned her head to the slightly older child who had called her Beserking ‘just stories’. “Sigurd go and give her one of your tunics.”

The blonde child turned to her in the sort of horror that only a well-to-do child could muster. “But Mother she-”

“Sigurd, do as you’re told,” Aslaug hissed, forcing the child to do as he was bid lest he be reprimanded more. The spitefully look cast at both Freydis and Aslaug had the young girl shrinking further back into the bearskins. The sheer size of the pelt was comforting to the normally reclusive child.  
“She will only dirty our clothes, Mother,” the crippled child sharing her throne said bluntly, his small brow furrowed in annoyance at the dirty Freydis. “You stink.”

Freydis opened her mouth to protest, but the many pairs of eyes staring at her caused her to snap it shut within moments. Whilst it was true that the blood and sweat caused a foul odour if one was not accustomed to the stench, it still pained her to hear. Her eyes briefly glanced the boy’s darkening hair and vivid blue eyes before dropping to the floor.

“Ivar of course she smells, they just came back from the summer raids,” another of the blonde sons joked.

“I don’t care, Hvisterk, she should take a bath,” this ‘Ivar’ barked back before jabbing a finger in Freydis’ direction. “Go away, stinky girl.”

Sigurd returned and begrudgingly thrust a deep blue tunic at Freydis, causing her to stumble is his fist collided with her chest. Her jaw dropped a little at the blatant act, and the festering look in his eyes told her it was no accident either. For whatever crime she had unknowingly committed against him, he hated her.

“You shouldn’t push girls, Sigurd,” said the oldest son Freydis knew to be Ubbe. Though it was said too lightly and his younger brother merely rolled his eyes in response.

All the while as the sons bickered, Aslaug continued to eye Freydis. She did not retaliate when Ivar insulted her, nor when shoved by Sigurd, causing the mother’s intentions for Freydis to deepen. The girl was quiet, tolerant and most of all protective. She protected a mother and her child, and with careful planning would make a perfect companion to protect Ivar into adulthood.

Aslaug beckoned over a servant and commanded a stein of mead be poured for Freydis, to which the ten-year-old was swiftly handed a mug larger than both her hands. 

“Drink it, Freydis Gudmundsdottir,” she signaled, taking a small sip of her on goblet. “And tell your father I would much appreciate a private meeting tomorrow at noon.”

Freydis drank deeply from the stein, cringing as the hot liquid stung her throat, but she nonetheless drank dutifully. Ivar, the youngest son, stared at her with both disdain and curiosity. Even from their secluded farm by the coast, Freydis and her father had heard tales of the cruel and violent Ivar. He had apparently already killed another child and grew so angry that even full-grown men struggled to control him. He was essentially a Beserker in control of his faculties, and that set Freydis on edge. Yet his eyes were so clear and calculating that she couldn’t help but want to change them into a gaze of approval. Conflict was not something she wished for. 

Nodding silently, the girl drowned out her thoughts in the sound of drums and horns blearing notes into the celebrations, along with the valiant cheers of the warriors who had returned from England. Her father’s boasting and praises from Earl Ygraf caused her face to blossom red, whilst the Ragnarssons continued to squabble at their mother’s side.

It was all too much. She felt herself mentally retreating to England once more.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

Aslaug had seen little of her sons’ futures, and least of all of her most beloved Ivar’s, and it worried her so. She had approached the Seer a number of times, though was often left with baffling and riddled answers, or was told to ask better questions. Though this time the questions were regarding her new plan involving the Beserker girl. 

The Seer did not turn to acknowledge her presence for a number of moments before the Queen cleared her throat and approached the Ancient One, ducking beneath the strange ornaments that hung from the rafters. 

“I have questions to ask of you,” Aslaug announced bluntly, seating herself in front the disfigured man. That is, assuming he was a man at all.

He sighed audibly and said, “I am aware, Queen Aslaug.”

“I want to know of the Beserker, Freydis Gudmundsdottir.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard words on the wind about her,” he stated. “But only whisperings, for the gods are fickle and have yet to let the tides settle.”

Aslaug wrinkled her nose at the cryptic message, saying, “What use is that nonsense to me?”

“You never ask the right questions, Queen Aslaug, only demand answers for fortunes you have yet to reach,” the Seer mumbled and turned his attention from the ever impatient woman. “But I have seen things of Freydis Gudmundsdottir.”

“Then tell me if she will hurt my Ivar,” Aslaug hissed through her teeth. If the girl showed any hint of betrayal in any of her possible futures then she would not hesitate to have her head cleaved from her shoulders for a treachery she could easily fabricate.

The Seer was silent for many moments, as if debating whether or not to speak. His twisted face left little room for facial expressions, though his lips were drawn into a thin, tight line. Finally a released a breath and began to speak.

"Her fate and that of your youngest’s are as moveable as sand and control of them will slip through your fingers if you clench too tightly. As for your question: that girl will protect Ivar better than you ever could, Queen Aslaug," the Seer mumbled through weathered lips and continued before the now excited mother could interrupt. "But he will love her more than you. Far, far more than you."

A row of pearly teeth sunk into her lip at the news and the dryness of her mouth prevented her from speaking. To her mind’s eyes, she could not imagine how her perfect little boy could love any but her, least of all a farmer girl. Aslaug had dutifully raised and loved him more than any of her other children, sacrificing countless nights to keep him warm and safe. Yet to think that another could replace that love was unthinkable.

“You are aware of the difficulties Ivar will face as a cripple,” he added. “The gods are changeable in their ways, do not steer the course of fate in the wrong direction, Queen Aslaug.”

The Queen stood up quickly and immediately exited the Seer’s hut, leaving him without the necessary payment. Instead her feet carried her back to the Great Hall with a sullen expression, fists balling her dress until she found Ivar poking the fire with a large stick to make the flames erupt.

She knelt and engulfed him a deep hug, cradling his head against his shoulder. “I love none but you Ivar, you know that.”

“Yes, Mother,” came the muffled reply from her shoulder. “Let me go I am busy.”

Reluctantly, the Queen released her son and gently stroked his dark hair, ignoring the hurt expression of her second youngest son watching from their sleeping quarters.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning of the meeting with Queen Aslaug, Freydis’ father took extra care in untangling his wild red beard, and had his daughter clean her boots and wash her equally wild hair. Few words were spoken between the pair, as Gudmund had never been a particularly sentimental parent. 

Gudmund groaned and hissed as he jerked a wooden comb through his beard, whilst Freydis glided her hand over the bear pelt. Painted glass beads with rings of gold and kohl to make it seem realistic had replaced the eyes of the bear and sat snuggly in the empty sockets. It stared it her with an unreadable expression, causing her to hesitate before putting it on. The jaw sat around the top of her head much like a crown, with the rest of the pelt acting as a cape that dragged along the ground if she wasn’t careful. 

Her mind wandered to the cripple, Ivar and the way he had spoken of her as if she were nothing but a dirty beggar, when in fact Freydis and her father owned a relatively self sufficient farm. Due to the poor soil and hostile climate, the earth only produced enough vegetables for them to live off and fed the chickens enough for them to not starve. Never was there any money left over for niceties, hence Gudmund’s eagerness to raid in the summer and to raise his social status through his daughter. 

Freydis carefully stepped across the frigid hillside, which was sheer and rocky with a plummet that led to one of the largest rivers in Norway. The goat herd was carefully guarded by a pair of hounds, Mottir and Dottir, siblings from different fathers. They too trotted around the herd, keeping them safe and preventing any from wandering. Though this was normally Freydis’ job, it was necessary for both to attend the meeting.

She snatched up a few wildflowers that protruded from the steep hillside, and fetched a pair of blue speckled eggs from the hen house that one of their best chickens had laid. It was considered a prize amongst farmers and even common folk, and would make a nice gift for Ivar. She hoped that Queen Aslaug would appreciate the flowers also.

Gudmund called for her, beckoning her towards him as he made his way down the harsh terrains to the riverbank. From there they would follow it all the way to the outskirts of Kattegat.

Which was easier said than done as the walk itself took nearly three hours and the frosty spray of wind beating the river chilled her to the core. By the time they had reached Kattegat, Freydis was near ready to collapse if it weren’t for the harsh barking of her father. He all but hauled her to the Great Hall before setting her firmly on her feet. 

Kneeling before her, he straightened the girl’s posture and said, “Remember who got us here, Freydis. Don’t antagonize the Queen’s sons, don’t touch anything just… don’t mess this up.”

“I won’t, Father,” she replied with the two eggs and wildflowers still in her hands.   
He sighed deeply and led her into the relatively empty hall that housed a number of women doing needlework and general house keeping. Freydis immediately gazed upon their work and admired the finery of the colours and thread. She noticed Queen Aslaug mulling around the fire, examining the stew that hung over it with a critical eye before looking up to greet them.

“Ah Gudmund… Freydis,” she began tersely. “Let us sit, I am sure you’ve had a long journey.”

“Yes, Queen Aslaug, the child and I are weary from travelling.”

“No doubt,” she said and gestured for food to be brought. “What is that you’re holding, Freydis?”

As if to sabotage the meeting, the girl felt her voice seize up in her throat and she tentatively placed the blue eggs and now slightly wilted flowers on the table they sat at. The eggs rolled slightly but she caught them before they could fall.

“T-The eggs are for Ivar. They’re from our chicken Astrid, her eggs are really special because they’re blue,” she paused momentarily at the darknening expression of her father. “And the flowers are for you, Queen Aslaug… I picked them on the hills.”

Gudmund noted how her jaw tensed at the mentioned of the gift for Ivar, but vanished just as quickly. He could sense the souring of the meeting and immediately interjected. 

“Yes, Freydis has strange ideas of what is considered an appropriate gift for a Queen.” He side-eyed his daughter before continuing. “Please forgive her.”

“No need, in fact, you are welcome to give the eggs to Ivar now, Freydis. He would really love that,” Aslaug said with a tight smile.

Freydis picked the eggs up again and examined them for dirt. “Really?” 

With a nod Queen Aslaug said, “He would, Ivar is just near the throne playing.”

The young girl turned her attentions to the dais where, rather than playing, the dark haired Ivar was carving something into the throne. She glanced back, expecting Aslaug to reprimand her son for such destructive behaviour, but instead she smiled brighter than before. One of Freydis’ eyebrows quirked at the lack of discipline, though she shuffled off the seat nonetheless and approached the boy nonetheless.

Once she was close, the boy barely spared her a glance and continued his carving. She fidgeted in her recently cleaned boots and held out the pretty blue eggs. 

“These are for you, Ivar,” Freydis announced with a smile. “They’re from our farm and they’re fresh this morning-”

Ivar turned his head and glared. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She was lost for words and so pulled the eggs back to her side. Did he not understand how much of a sacrifice it was to gift the rare eggs rather than sell them? With a small huff she stared at the carvings in the throne Ivar had made with the gutting knife.

It was a vertical line with a triangle on the side. “That’s Thor’s rune,” she stated in way that almost sounded questioning.

“Glad to know you at least know something, peasant,” he muttered, not turning from his work.

“I know lots of runes, Floki taught me them on the way back from England.”

“Good for you, now go away,” growled Ivar, and Freydis glanced back to her father to see he was engaged in a serious conversation with the Queen. She glanced back at the boy, unsure of if she should go or attempt to play with Ivar like she was told. “I mean it, go away!”

With a violent shove, Ivar pushed her off the dais and onto the hard floors of the Great Hall, breaking the pair of expensive eggs in the process. Yoke and slime covered her hands, some leaking onto her bearskins. She tried to shake it off and stand but only slipped in the egg’s residue, her head colliding with the edge of the dais. A sharp wave of pain emanated from Freydis’ forehead, causing her mind to temporarily go blank, until the sound of laughter filled her eyes.

Holding her head, she looked up to find the cripple rolling on the ground laughing boisterously. He slapped the wood and clutched his stomach, fearing that he would burst at any second. Aslaug had risen from her seat, not out of concern for the girl who would surely sport a nasty bruise the next day, but for signs that Freydis would lash out. A twitch in her lower lip betrayed the tensions in the room, and the defining moment in which Freydis would either be accepted by Aslaug or slaughtered.

Air hitched in Gudmund’s lungs as he saw all his hopes for the future drifting away like early morning mist. Oh gods Freydis had done it now. She was sure to receive a hiding for such behaviour. But if she went beserk, then not even the gods would be able to save her from Aslaug’s wrath.

Freydis groaned as she sat up and gingerly touched the sore spot, which was growing hotter by the second, only to have her dark eyes immediately drawn to the broad, cheeky grin etched across the prince’s face. It was like a new light ignited in them, and it caused her chest to feel tight with an unknown feeling. In turn, her own lips curled up into a semi-smile as the cripple struggled to contain his laughter. His boyish laughter was infectious, and she too found herself giggling nervously alongside him.

The Queen slowly sunk back into her seat, unable to slow the frantic beating of her heart. She feared the Beserker going ballistic before Aslaug could rush to Ivar’s side, but instead Freydis seemed to tolerate the frustratingly mischievous side to her son.

“You are a stupid girl,” Ivar blurted out between laughs. “I will carve the rune for stupid girl into my mother’s throne. Then I won’t forget.”

Freydis stood tentatively, unsteady on her feet and said, “I don’t think there is a rune for ‘stupid’…?”

“I can put the rune for ‘unknowable’ and ‘woman’ because you don’t know anything,” Ivar replied, once again focused on carving the wooden throne. The girl approached slowly and sat beside him, watching as he whittled away the intricate and beautiful engravings of Queen Aslaug’s throne, and replaced them with poorly carved runes.

Before he had finished he whipped his head to the said and stared at Freydis with mesmerizing eyes brandishing the gutting knife in front of her face. It was relatively dull, scratched and chipped, so Freydis had guessed it was likely one of his brothers’ old knives that had been discarded. Regardless of how blunt it was, it was still sharp enough to crudely slice open skin.

“I want to play a game, peasant.” The sound of his calm yet commanding voice sent chills down her spine, so she leant back slightly in apprehension.

She licked her dry lips and asked, “What kind of game, Ivar?”  
“I saw some of the adults playing it at the feast last night,” he paused and played with the knife between his fingers. Ivar watched the nervousness creep into Freydis’ eyes and her muscles tighten; she wriggled uneasily on the spot. “You just put your hand on the floor with your fingers spread, and I’ll stab between you fingers.”

Her face twisted into an expression of disdain. “That doesn’t sound like a fun game.”

“You a cowardly Christian now?” Ivar sneered back as the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

“No!” She blurted out. 

“Then let’s play,” his reply was so soft and innocent, but only betrayed by the dangerous glint in his eye.

He forcefully grabbed her wrist and made Freydis place her open palm on the dais floor, before telling her to spread her fingers. The girl swallowed thickly and did as she was told. Ivar held the knife in a downwards-stabbing position and jabbed it between each of her fingers at a steady, controllable pace. 

Thick thuds resonated both in the wood and her chest as her heart beat uncontrollably against her ribs. The pace was quickening and the gap between his stabs and her fingers was growing smaller. Soon it moved to quickly and Freydis could feel his muscles moving on instinct without his mind processing exactly where the knife’s end was falling and it was becoming much to close for comf-

“Ivar, don’t do that it’s dangerous!” Snapped a voice from behind them, and for a moment the boy’s concentration slipped enough for the knife to skim the side of her middle finger, leaving a gash that was welling up with blood. 

The cripple in question turned his attentions to his oldest half-brother, Bjorn with a deathly scowl. “We were playing, brother, leave us alone.”

“Us?” The old blonde man chuckled. “Who is this?”

Freydis turned her attentions to the tall Viking who towered over her. “I’m Freydis…”

“That’s not a good game to be playing if you don’t know how to use a knife, Ivar,” Bjorn reprimanded as he eyed his little brother’s new companion. Children never approached the frighteningly unpredictable Ivar anymore, so it was a surprise that some a reserved looking girl was willing to. 

“I know how to use a knife,” Ivar hissed back. “And she’s fine anyway.”

Freydis glanced down at the blood pooling around her hands; the gash was deep, but not so much that it had severed any nerves and prevented her from feeling it. Though it stung, she was used to small wounds when working on the farm, so it was little more than a nuance due to the amount of blood.

“Well, little brother, perhaps you should practice more otherwise you might hurt your small friend again.”

“I don’t care, she moved it was her fault.”

Aslaug interjected, having watched the entire scene, “He is right, Bjorn. The girl was not paying attention and moved, Ivar is not at fault.”

There was a tense moment in which Queen and step-son stared one another down, watching with hawk-like focus to catch any sign of weakness. Yet neither was willing to back down until Gudmund approached. He could sense the air shift around them and quickly jerked his head towards the Great Hall’s doors.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Queen Aslaug,” he said gently as his daughter came to his side. She glanced back at Ivar who had been watching her wordlessly the entire time and gave him a brief smile, which returned only in the slightest twitching of his lips. “My daughter and I will head home, but I will accept your gracious offer, as will Freydis.”

Freydis looked up at the three adults, her gaze lingering questioningly on her father until he pulled her away from the scene. She was curious as to the agreement she was supposedly accepting, though said nothing until they were out of Kattegat. Behind her, Ivar stared without movement as Aslaug bent to stroke his hair. It was a loving gesture, one that was saved for him alone. He lorded that fact over his brothers, relishing in their frustrations.

“Do you like her, Ivar?” Aslaug whispered.

He shrugged in response and said, “She can come again.”

A smile etched itself across her beautiful face at the reply, knowing full well that it was likely the best response she would be getting from him. “Good, because she will be staying here for much longer next time.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Freydis had gone off to attempt play with Ivar, Aslaug’s false gentleness evaporated in a single breath. Gudmund was taken aback by the sudden change in personality and especially the same calculating stare he had witnessed the night before. It was unnerving to say the least.

“I do not wish to engage in niceties, so we shall head straight to the point, no?” She said in a lighthearted tone that contradicted her expression, though Gudmund nodded nonetheless. “I know you are an ambitious man, and I know you would appreciate more fertile land than the Ranveig Hills. So in exchange for your daughter I am willing to offer you farming land on the sourthern coast, they are rich lands and you will grow enough to build your own farmstead.”

A tingling sensation emanated through the tips of his fingers and up the man’s spine, but was interrupted by the words she uttered. He was not overly attached to his daughter, though the thought of selling his daughter to a witch was disconcerting even for him. Greed and duty tore through his ambition, and Aslaug herself could see the difficult conflict arising in his blue eyes. She rested her cheek on her fist and stared deeply into his eyes, noting the softening of his tense muscles. Queen Aslaug was aware of her effect on men and even women, and she would do her best to use it to her benefit.

“I do not wish to purchase your daughter, Gudmund Ango, only to have a companion for my son, Ivar,” his eyes flickered to the children, with Freydis having made a fool of herself already. He watched her carefully, as did Aslaug, though the tense moment passed and they continued. “As a Beserker, your child would be suited to protect Ivar for as long as he needs. I intend to betroth them to gain Freydis’ loyalty, though betrothal will not be honoured as I do not want my precious son marrying a peasant, do you understand?”

Gudmund sucked in a breath at the term ‘peasant’ which had been thrown around lately. They were above mere peasants, though only just. His mouth became thin and taut as he attempted to control his annoyance for the sake of this meeting.

“Instead she will be his companion until Ivar can protect himself, then she must leave and it will be as if they were never betrothed,” Queen Aslaug continued. “They may do as they please, but she is not to fall pregnant nor harm my son in any way or she shall be executed.”

“Freydis is a good girl,” Gudmund uttered, staring at the sweet face of his only child. No, there was not much in her to be proud of aside from her gods given gift that would surely elevate their family status, though the thought of her being executed pained him in ways he had forgotten he could hurt. “She won’t hurt your son, and she is not silly enough to sleep with anyone above her status.”

Suddenly Aslaug’s face shifted into that demure smile that had tricked Gudmund into thinking she was naught but a silly woman with too much power on her shoulders. “Well if you agree, then bring her back within the month, but don’t tell her about our plan, only that she is betrothed.” 

The woman planted an erect index finger in front of lips before rising to interrupt the conversation between Bjorn Ironside and the two children. Gudmund watched sullenly, noting how the blood pooled around his daughter’s hand caused by the strangely cruel Ivar. A twinge of regret echoed through his mind, but it was quickly smothered by his ambitions and greed. Freydis would likely live a better life with the royal family if she were sold to the Queen. 

Or so he told himself.

 

The wind had picked up and the sun was setting as the father and daughter pair picked their way across the frosty hills towards their farm. Gudmund stepped over the bumps and crevices cleaved into the hillside by the wind, whilst Freydis nimbly hoped from rock to rock as if it were all a game. Her face was set in a stern gaze of concentration, arms stretched out the side for balance. 

Moments like these had him regretting the death of his late wife, particularly as his memories of her began to fade. Freydis had little to not recollection of her mother who had died giving birth to a stillborn son, and thus her father had placed all his hopes and dreams on her. Everything he had wanted to accomplish and be rested on his daughter, whom he had just sold to be the companion of a cruel child for a plot of land.

He dragged a hand down his face and said, “Freydis, you will be living with Queen Aslaug soon.” He paused and scanned the beautiful horizon littered with hills and boulders. “You and her son, Ivar, are betrothed now.”

“Betrothed?” She mimicked, unsure of the word. 

“You will be getting married to him when you are old enough… So you must always protect him.”

Freydis tilted her head, asking, “And where will you go, Father?”

“I will go down the coast, to build us a farm,” he replied gently as they continued to walk. “You have to look after Ivar, Freydis. You’ve got to, for both our sakes.”

She stared back at him with large, inky eyes that held a sea of questions in them, pink lips pursed as if ready to ask them all. Instead she stared up at the darkening sky.

“Okay, Father. Anything you say.”

The two figures moved slowly across the landscape until they reached their farm, with the two dogs bounding to great them. Only the sound of howling wind and the bells around the goats’ necks could be heard that night.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey all! I would really appreciate if people could PM or leave links in the reviews of really good or interesting Viking fanfics! Struggling to find anything good lately since the fanbase is still relatively small ☹  
Thank you for all your support, hope you enjoy!

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Within two weeks, Freydis was made to return to Kattegat with little more than some goatskin blankets, a child-sized shield and a handful of runes stuffed in her pocket. The bearskin that indicated she was a Beserker was difficult to care for, as sleet and rain caused the fur to clump and matte.

The strange words her father had said still echoed through her mind: You have to look after Ivar, Freydis. You’ve got to, for both our sakes. She supposed that was obvious if they were going to be married when they were older, yet he had said it with such conviction that Freydis was set on edge. For most of the journey from their now abandoned farm, as Gudmund had left a few days prior for the sourthern coast, she tried to imagine being married to a such a cruel boy. The thought only frightened her.

Upon reaching the Great Hall at Kattegat, Aslaug ushered her in and took off her bearskin to let Freydis warm herself by the fire, to which the Queen herself sat by the hearth also. She examined the young girl carefully, noting the faint muscles visible beneath the sleeves of her tunic and the wary glint in her eye. The girl was pretty enough for a peasant, but too withdrawn for decent conversation. Rather Aslaug was more interested in grooming the child to become loyal to a fault without fail.

“That must’ve been a long walk, Freydis,” Aslaug mentioned with faux sympathy that practically dripped off her lips. “Was it dangerous?”

Freydis rubbed her hands together in front of the fire and replied, “It was longer for me because Father wasn’t there to help… But it wasn’t dangerous Queen Aslaug, the wolves don’t attack if you leave them alone.”

“Gudmund let you walk here alone when wolves were about?” She asked in surprise.

“Wolves aren’t dangerous if you’re careful,” Freydis mumbled, avoiding eye contact with the Queen.

“You are quite the clever girl, aren’t you, Freydis?” Aslaug said. “Ivar will enjoy you very much.”

“He scared me yesterd-” 

Aslaug’s expression quickly shifted into one of stern, bordering on aggressive, reprimanding as she said, “Don’t say that ever again, Freydis. Ivar is your betrothed and you are not to say such things about him.” She took a deep, steady breath before continuing. “Why don’t we get you settled, hm? I’m sure Ivar will look forward to playing with you today, as all his brothers are out.”

Wordlessly, Freydis followed the Queen, still startled by the sudden shift in demeanor. She made a mental note to follow the woman’s advice, if only to avoid such a reaction reoccurring. She was led to a side wing of the Great Hall where most of the servants slept and told to lay down the skins. Queen Aslaug eyed the scraggily goatskins the Beserker laid down further away from where most of the beds were positioned. The servants tended to huddle together for warmth during the night, but it seemed the girl was more concerned by her personal space than by warmth. Likewise most had elk or sheep skins, which by comparison to goatskins, were far softer and warmer. She also set the small shielf down on the skins, along with the runes before moving back out to the main feasting area of the Great Hall.

They retreated the royal family’s personal quarters that had been divided by a thin meshed fabric, to reveal the young Ivar idly trying to do up his bootlaces. It was clearly quite the task due his crippled legs, and Ivar glared up at Freydis who was caught staring.

“What’re you looking at, peasant?” He hissed as Aslaug bent to tie them up for him. He grabbed his legs and jerked them away from her. “I can do it myself, Mother.”

The woman recoiled her hands as if she had been burnt but quickly said, “I know you can, Ivar. I can just do it faster.” 

By the time she had finished speaking, the laces had already been tied and Ivar was leaning back on his hands. “You came back,” he said bluntly.

“Yes, Ivar, she is your betrothed and will be living with us until you are married.”

“Why am I to marry a peasant? My brothers are choosing their own wives,” Ivar chided, staring Freydis down. She hid behind a curtain of dark hair and avoided his eyes. They were wild and aggressive, neither of which settled her anxious spirit in the slightest.

Aslaug gave him an unreadable look and shook her head at him, saying, “Because marrying a Beserker is like marrying a gift from the gods, and it is a gift to you. Your brothers will never have the honour of marrying a Beserker.” 

The Queen knew how to pander to her son’s growing ego and eagerness to have whatever his brothers had, though placing him on a higher pedestal seemed to have the desired effect as his face broke into a smile. His inferiority complex was a tough sea to navigate for Aslaug, and she hoped as Freydis grew older she would never understand how to control him in such away. No, the girl was more of a servant than an equal to Ivar. She would make sure of it.

Freydis anxiously gripped her wrist and pinched the skin as they spoke of her as if she were a weapon gifted to Ivar, rather than a person he would marry. She quelled the feelings, however. 

The cripple looked at her and said, “Do you know how to play Tafl?*”

(*Tafl is the Viking equivalent of chess)

She shook her head, to which he tutted with annoyance. “I will show you, then we will play.”

Ivar crawled along the ground and hoisted himself up onto a chair towards the back of the room, with his mother hovering close behind. The Beserker followed and glanced over the strangely decorated table. It was a lattice of 12x12 squares with a beautiful swirling pattern around the rim, with small bone figures scattered along the board. Ivar deftly arranged them so that the white figures were in the middle, and the small brown figures were scattered around the edges of the board.

“I will be King,” Ivar explained, gesturing to the tallest white figure surrounded by smaller ones and then to the remaining brown figures. “And you will be the invaders.”

He then proceeded to explain the complicated rules as Aslaug drifted off to resume her Queenly duties with a goblet in hand. Clearly Ivar was superior at Tafl to Freydis, largely due to his practice and quick mind. She, on the other hand, struggled to grasp the tactics required to outsmart her opponent. With every loss the cripple found it necessary to flick her forehead or pinch her skin quite harshly.

“No you can’t move that direction! Only two spaces forward and one to the side-” Ivar grumbled but was interrupted as Freydis suddenly stood, the legs of her chair grating along the floor as she did so. “Don’t get upset because you lost.”

Freydis gripped the table and huffed, “I’m not upset, I just do not understand this game.”

Ivar snorted and swept the bone figures off the carved table to the floor, and placed his elbow on the table. “It is what I want to play. If you win this wrestle, then you do not have to play; but if you lose… then you have to keep playing until I am bored.”

Resuming her seat, Freydis begrudgingly placed her elbow on the table also and they linked hands. The rivalry was set and the pair stared each other down for many moments before the tension was too great and Ivar began to push down on Freydis’ arm. She responded in kind and pushed back as hard as she could until both their arms were quivering with the strain. Though fairly quickly it became apparent who would win as Freydis’ time as a farmer and sword practice gave her the upper edge. Her opponent’s face twisted into anger as the back of his hand was coming close to the table, but with such force he knocked the table out of the way and tackled Freydis to the ground.

She went down with a small scream and suddenly Ivar had crawled on top of her, holding her arms to her sides so tightly she could hardly wriggle. A wicked smile adorned his face until she managed to free one arm and shove his face away, to which he chomped down on a finger that strayed too close to his mouth.

“Ow!” She yelped, retracting her hand. “You cannot bite, Ivar! That’s cheating!”

“You don’t make the rules,” he snapped back as he tried to twist the free hand behind her back. She struggled violently before finally using her legs to shunt the boy’s body off of her own. Tumbling off her, he grabbed her leg before she could stand and she dropped to the ground, winded to the point of wheezing.

Ivar crawled back over the heaving girl to attempt to pin her down, only for her ‘wheezing’ to suddenly evaporate and she in turn pinned him to the floor with a broad grin.

“I will not lose that easy, Ivar,” she said proudly before he hooked his arm around her head and practically tossed her away.

The pair spent a good part of the day play fighting on the pelt covered floor of the royal family’s sleeping quarters, until both had beads of sweat dripping from their foreheads. Neither had given up nor relented, and so they were forced to call it a draw.

Ivar’s chest rose and fell quickly as he struggled to fill his lungs with air and glanced at the girl beside him with a small frown. Dark hair was plastered to her forehead, her cheeks were a fiery red from exhaustion and, as she turned her head to look back at him, there was a certain wildness that contrasted her normally timid personality. The girl stared back into his vividly deep eyes, noting the bittersweet reflection in them that manifested in a perpetual scowl. Though it wasn’t as intense as it had been.

The vulnerability was swiftly disturbed as Freydis was reminded of his apparent cruelty when he slugged his fist into the side of her ribs. She howled in pain and balled up, clutching her torso as the red-hot pain of the strike emanated from the spot. He had struck with such speed that her mind was still reeling as she mewled softly and tried to protect herself from further harm.

Having lashed out on some primal instinct to protect himself from some unknown danger, Ivar retracted his fist and watched as his new companion gasped in pain whilst clenching her sore ribs. She had lost that glimmer of reserved fear, and that frustrated him, yet it seemed his body had moved on instinct.

Nevertheless he rolled over onto his side and said, “Stop your howling, idiot!”

Tears had begun to prickle at the corners of her eyes, though she dashed a hand in front of them to prevent any from spilling over. Ivar rolled his own eyes at her fragility before pushing himself upright. Truth be told, his body had reacted faster than his mind could, yet no sympathy could be found within him. 

He huffed and pushed her shoulder not as forcefully as he had struck her before jerking his chin in the direction of the Great Hall doors. “I want to go outside and watch the boats,” Ivar grunted.

Freydis turned over with red-rimmed eyes, scanning his face for any indication that he was mocking her or readying to lash out again. Instead it was relatively blank, if not a little animated. Clearly he had moved on from his little outburst and was ready to act normal again; at least as normal as the cripple could act. The fact that he had not completely rejected her excited Freydis enough to cause the tiniest of smiles to adorn her face and she tentatively nodded back, although she was curious as to why he wanted to watch sedentary boats settling in the bay.

When they had actually reached the port, with Freydis following Ivar’s speed as he crawled, the boy swung his legs over the edge and sat with them dangling above the water. Freydis sat beside him, though a little further than was necessary as hadn’t yet recovered from the fruits of his temper. 

The sun had begun to set, dipping low to the horizon and casting its reflection of yellow, orange and pink hues across the bay. Before them the boats lulled atop the water, their multicoloured sales fluttering in the wind and snarling dragonheads sitting idle, completely out of place in the relatively calm Kattegat. A few fishermen’s boats bobbed further out of the bay at the lip of the sea as they cast their nets in hopes of a good catch, though when they returned to land empty handed it seemed the gods had not favoured them this time.

“I am going to be a great warrior and more famous than my father,” Ivar suddenly said, not bothering to look to Freydis for a response. Rather she guessed it was said more to himself than to anyone else. “You and I are going to be married when we are older… So you will help me, no?”

Freydis nodded in response with a small ‘hmm’.

There was a satisfied smirk on his face that melted back into a more serious expression as he said, “Do you pity me for being a cripple?”

“No, it means you don’t have to go raiding.”

Ivar hissed through his teeth and glared at the girl beside him. “But I want to go raiding. What Viking does not want to raid?”

“I don’t,” she admitted, tugging the bearskins closer to her body. “I will not go ever again.”

“That is because you are a coward,” Ivar sneered.

“Maybe…”

He said nothing for many moments before staring back out to the horizon. Beyond the waters, further than any eye could see, was England: the land he intended to raid and plunder, to rid it of the Christians or to enslave them. There he knew he would find glory and all would finally come to respect him.

“If I go, then you will to.”

Freydis thought for a short while and chewed on her bottom lip. She said nothing in response but followed his gaze out to the ocean. Ivar had spoken with such conviction, yet her mind was made up the moment she had come out from her stupor which had left four soldiers dead. The coating of blood and sinew on her face and hands had her violently sick, and just the thought of returning sent shivers up her spine. No true Viking hated the raids or the chance to seek glory, so Freydis assumed perhaps her Beserker gift was a cruel and ironic gift from the gods to make her suffer. 

Again her attention was drawn to Ivar and she found herself gently rubbing her sore ribs. Perhaps that was how friends treated one another, though she couldn’t be sure as she was raised in nearly isolation. Yet the odd connection that had formed between the pair was undeniable, even if Freydis couldn’t determine whether it was because of their betrothal or any true relationship.

Regardless, in that instant Freydis had made up her mind: she would honour her father’s statement to dutifully protect Ivar. Even if it killed her.


	4. Chapter 4

I apologise for how short this chapter is, but it’s mainly filler. Hope you enjoy it regardless <3  
Also sorry for how slow the last chapter was, I was struggling to write it because it was a really hard transition chapter (particularly since Ivar is actually a really hard character to write).  
Thank you to all your support guys! I really appreciate it ☺

Onefortheroad: Yeah I'm aiming for best friends before lovers, and as much as I'd love for him no to be so cruel I'm afraid they will have their ups and downs ;~;

 

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Freydis had never given much thought to life within Kattegat. The news that she was betrothed was sprung on her quite readily, and life for her had continued on as normal until the day she left for Kattegat alone. Her father had taken the goats, chickens and hounds, all of whom she missed even though she had never been particularly close to her father.

Still, adjusting had been difficult for Freydis as there were no crops or livestock to tend to, or scavengers to defend from. Even her father’s brash training had kept her occupied whereas here she was expected to watch Ivar like a hawk. It was emotionally taxing to say the least with his violent outbursts and frightening tantrums. Queen Aslaug endured them like a seasoned warrior and with such patience, whilst Freydis could only look on the mother tried to soothe him. He would flail, lash out at anybody and everybody, and typical hurl insults at any who side-eyed him. All in all he was the terror of the Great Hall.

She tried her best to suffer his outbursts by trying to distract him with interesting things she had found or heard, but often he would become so enraged by the teasing of his brothers that he could not be consoled. 

Of all the brothers, Sigurd was the nastiest, always picking at the youngest Ragnarsson and making sure to exclude him from the brothers’ hunting trips and adventures outside Kattegat. Hence why Freydis and Ivar were regularly left to their own devices to entertain themselves. Sometimes they hunted wood pigeons as Ivar proved to be quite the lucky shot with a bow and arrow, or Floki would tell them stories of the gods and of the Paris. Ivar was always more eager to hear of the raiding stories, whilst Freydis preferred those of her namesake, Freya.

Soon spring was upon them and the two had grown near inseparable, though Ivar was as insufferable as always. He had improved his speed and mobility through crawling, which ultimately led to Ivar insisting he be included in the regular Ragnarsson hunting trips.

The family of five and Freydis sat in near silence around the Great Hall’s feasting table eating their dinner of venison and potato, before Hvitserk broke the stagnant quiet.

“Mother, we are going hunting again,” he announced into his mug as he downed the contents.

The Queen quirked an eyebrow at him before glancing around at her oldest three sons, saying, “Again? My sons are out hunting a lot lately.”

“Yes well, we want to prepare for the raids next summer,” Ubbe replied calmly.

“Not all your sons, Mother,” interjected Ivar as he stared down at the mish mash of ingredients in his wooden bowl. “I have not gone yet.”

She swallowed thickly, heart beating faster as she set her spoon down and folded her hands in her lap. A coy smile played at her lips whilst preparing to tip toe around the issue of him going hunting. Not only did she fear for her son’s safety, she was not adverse to his physical limitations, for hunting simple wood pigeons only a stone’s throw from Kattegat was on a totally different level to hunting deer or boar in deep oak forests. Her eyes flickered to Freydis, who sat quietly watching Ivar until she herself was caught staring and stared back down at her hands. Aslaug smirked at the girl’s evasive behaviour, though it was quickly wiped off her face.

“A cripple would only get in the way,” Sigurd muttered, not bothering to make eye contact.

Ivar growled, baring his teeth in an animalistic way before saying, “Do not call me ‘cripple’, Sigurd.”

“He’s right, do not tease your brother,” Aslaug warned and waved a hand at them. “Just eat your soup.”

“… Well it’s true, he would just slow us down and be in danger all the time.”

“I will not,” he snapped as he pegged the wooden spoon at his brother’s forehead, hitting him clean between the eyes. 

Sigurd yelped and clutched the spot before his shocked expression evolved into one of anger. His brow furrowed deeply and he rose to his feet so quickly Aslaug hardly had time to react. Though, as if on queue, Freydis stood as well with a concerned expression. It was a weak defence but at that moment it was the only one Ivar had, for he was not yet strong enough to face any of his brothers physically.

“Settle, my children,” Aslaug insisted, glancing between her two youngest sons. “And Sigurd, if you continue to annoy Ivar, you will be sent straight to bed with no supper or breakfast.”

The son in question gawped, his mouth dropping slightly before he snapped it shut and sunk low into his seat. Hvitserk and Ubbe watched in pure silence, careful not to push their mother or youngest brother, knowing of Queen Aslaug’s obvious favouring of him. All the sons were aware that Aslaug loved Ivar far more than any of them, only Ubbe was not disenchanted with the thought that she at least loved the rest of them. Even Freydis doubted Alsaug’s love for the rest of her sons at one point or another.

Freydis too resumed her seat and sat bolt upright with stiff muscles. The meager confrontation caused her heart to race and muscles to tense up as she had acted on the impulse to defend against Sigurd. Even Ivar was surprised by her sudden display of courage, albeit that she couldn’t quite manage a threat.

Ivar then turned to his mother with arms crossed on the table and said, “Mother, I am going with my brothers.”

The Queen laughed gently and replied, “No, Ivar. You are too young.”

“Sigurd was ten when he started, and I am eleven now.”

“I said no, Ivar,” Aslaug grunted in a lower voice.

Suddenly the cripple slammed his fists on the table glared his mother down for such a time that it seemed as if the tension would suffocate all those in the room, before he lugged his legs over this side of the chair and moodily crawled away from the table, food unfinished. Freydis looked to Aslaug with upturned brows, questioning whether or not to follow. The woman had wiped her mouth with a cloth and sighed heavily.

“Go and tell Ivar he may go,” she commanded with a short pause. “But Freydis is to go also.”

A simultaneous groan resounded from Sigurd and Ubbe, whilst Hvitserk merely looked the Beserker square in the eyes. Neither malice nor excitement filled his icy blue eyes as they assessed her and she struggled not to wilt under the unnerving stare. 

Freydis nodded in response before shuffling of the chair to follow her companion. It was difficult to not become disheartened at the outright display of dismay towards her joining them, even though Freydis herself was not entirely interested in going. She was aware the only reason she was to join was to look after Ivar, as his brothers would likely disregard him early on in the trip. However the girl was similarly aware that her only real use as a protector was in Beserking, something she wished to never experience again.

She passed the meshed divider and stepped into the sleeping quarters of the royal family to find Ivar on the ground in a fit of rage. Already the cripple had knocked the Tafl table, chairs and skins onto the ground and had begun smashing pottery against the walls. Even as he noticed Freydis enter the room he did not stop, but instead hurled a clay cup at her head and it smashed against the entryway pillar, spraying water and debris across her body. The violent display held her frozen in the spot.

“Queen Aslaug said you c-can go on the hunting trip,” Freydis stammered, clutching her wrist tightly. She attempted to make herself look smaller by pulling her shoulders and legs tight to her body with stiff muscles.

“But she does not think I can!” Ivar howled at her. “All they see is ‘Oh Ivar he is just a poor cripple’, even Mother!”

Freydis felt her knees tremble as she said, “Then show them you’re not.”

“And how am I supposed to do that, Beserker?” He asked mockingly with a cruel sneer on his face. “I cannot walk or fight like my brother’s, and I have no gifts from the gods.”

“But you are smarter than them, Ivar,” she paused hesistantly before continuing. “And you are definitely smarter than me.”

“What does that matter?” Ivar retaliated, throwing a wooden spoon this time, which Freydis expertly dodged.

“King Ragnar was smart,” she answered in a level tone and, as if the dots had finally been connected, Ivar’s rage retreated to simmer just below the surface and he grimaced.

“I am not my father…” Ivar muttered back, thinking on how the man had so easily abandoned him and his brothers. The love still lingered, if only for the tales and legends for a once great man. Now everyone despised him.

In spite of how Freydis’ words had struck a cord with him, the undeniable doubt lingering in his mind regarding his cripple state could not be undone. Rather it only intensified through the years, manifesting itself in an uncontrollable rage. Nevertheless Freydis was relieved that he had settled slightly and gingerly returned to the table in the Great Hall where the strained conversation had continued with Ubbe attempting to keep the peace between his two youngest brothers. The bitter rivalry and bad blooded relationship had already been festering for years and so all the two could muster were livid glares at one another.

Regardless of the tensions, the brothers agreed to set off in three days time with Ivar and Freydis in tow, much to Aslaug’s dismay.

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The two oldest brothers, Ubbe and Hvitserk, shouldered Ivar between them, as his relatively slow crawl would ultimately mean they would not reach their secluded cabin by nightfall, leaving them exposed and vulnerable to the elements. Prior to their departure Aslaug had made a small sacrifice and spent many hours communing with the gods and praying for his safety. She even went so far as to try and have two Viking men accompany them, though Ivar adamantly refused.

Freydis found herself largely ignored by the Ragnarssons, and even Ivar as he tried to participate in the half-hearted teasing amongst his brothers. Ubbe and Hvitserk took turns carrying Ivar on their backs and trudging across the harsh Scandinavian landscape as the sun was beginning to skim the horizon. Across the hills the ominous echoes of a wolf pack resonated and chilled the bones of the Ragnarssons, though Freydis could hear through the farce.

To farmers and wanderers, it was well known that small wolf packs could amplify their howls to make it seem as though their pack was far larger than in reality, if one could pick the sounds. But to her it was clear that none of the Ragnarssons were true hunters, but merely privileged boys who were under the impression they could hunt. Yet they had never lived hand to mouth before, nor lost an entire flock in one season and been forced to hunt what few wild animals had not migrated or hibernated deep beneath the ground as Freydis and her father had been forced to do. She tried to not let the resentment catch in her throat, although it brought up painful memories of her mother’s death and brother’s still born birth due to famine. The Ragnarssons did not look stunted due to malnutrition, so Freydis guessed they had never gone hungry a day in their lives.

By the time the silvery moon was becoming visible in the evening sky, the group of five finally arrived at the slightly disheveled looking cabin. A few gaps in the wooden walls allowed insects and small rodents to make their homes inside, yet it seemed none of the brothers minded or they were too exhausted to grumble. Freydis’ feet ached terribly and so she kicked off her boots to massage her them once she had found a spot on the floor. Ivar was unceremoniously placed on the floor beside her where he gingerly rubbed the shoulder he had fallen on.

Her dark eyes were half-lidded as if deep in thought while her minded drifted back to memories of her younger years on their farm. When the hounds came in at night after single mindedly watching the goats for much of the day, she would rub their sore muscles until they groaned and fell asleep by the fire. It alleviated some of the loneliness of her father’s constant raiding, particularly during long winter nights without a single soul for miles around.

Although she was likely to be rejected, Freydis figured she hadn’t much else to lose and said, “Want me to rub your shoulder, Ivar?”

The words drew the attention of the other brothers, Sigurd in particular as he watched with a conceited smirk as to how his little brother would react. It was a harmless enough offer as the cripple was already attempting to rub the soreness from his shoulder due to the knot that had formed. It seemed even Ivar was aware of how his brother’s watched and he scowled in response, jerking his head away from her.

“Piss off, peasant,” Ivar spat and stopped rubbing his shoulder to try and hide the fact that it ached. 

It had been many months since Ivar had last called her a ‘peasant’, instead choosing to call her lazy and a coward but the words stung nonetheless. Freydis was taken aback by the clipped annoyance in his voice betraying his anxiousness to perform in front of his brothers.

She said nothing in response, only standing to go crouch by the growing fire. Cold wind blew through the gaps in the cabin walls, chilling the air around the small group. Elk bleating could be heard dancing across the gust like an eerie song chorused by the people before a sacrifice. They sounded inhuman and totally ethereal against the relatively silent forest. However the brothers who dropped their weapons that had been wrapped up in a cowhide, letting the metal on metal clatter to the floor, swiftly interrupted it. They scattered the weapons, with Ubbe quickly taking hold of the bow and arrows, whilst Hvitserk and Sigurd both took nets, rope and long daggers. 

Ivar dragged himself over to the pile, all the while being side-eyed by the disheartened Freydis, only to have Ubbe throw the cowhide back over the weapons. The youngest brother glowered up at Ubbe with an angry fire alight in his blue eyes. 

“Sorry, Ivar,” Ubbe began sympathetically. “You cannot come on this one with us. It is too dark and the elk are dangerous this time of year.”

“In the morning, little brother,” Hvitserk offered whilst sharpening his dagger against a whetstone, sending tiny sparks flying.

Sigurd smirked at Ivar and said, “Or maybe we will just leave you two here alone the whole night.” It was followed by a cackle as Sigurd shut the cabin door behind them, only for an axe to be thrown and firmly embedded in the wood where the blonde boy’s head had been but moments ago.

His heart caught in his throat at how close the blow had been, though he shook it off and disembarked into the deep oak forest with his brothers in search of elk. It was only a lucky shot, he attempted to tell himself, only half believing the weak lie.

Inside, Ivar heaved with frustration and longed to follow his brothers but, try as he might, his legs would not respond nor would they ever. He stared down at his thing, misshapen legs with contempt, then over to Freydis.

“We are going hunting too,” he stated.

Without so much as glancing away from the fire she said, “No, it is too late and too dangerous. We are more likely to be the gutted than do the gutting, Ivar.”

Ivar ‘hmphed’ and sullenly collapsed onto his back, wincing as his shoulder made contact with the compacted dirt floor. “Do you always only do the right thing, Freydis?” He asked mockingly, a strange smile curling upon his lips that wasn’t entirely unfriendly.

“I try to when I can,” she replied quickly.

“That is what makes you so boring.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

Ivar rolled onto his side to face the fire and watched the girl hunched over by the fire, clutching her knees. “You are upset,” he stated hesitantly although intended for it to be questioning. She said nothing back, only stared deep into the fire. Ivar sighed heavily and continued saying, “Do not be upset with me, you were embarrassing me and it is your fault you got in trouble for it.”

Freydis turned her head slightly to him and mumbled, “I was only trying to help you, Ivar.”

It was said so plainly, simply and without accusation that it caused Ivar’s mind to halt in the process of planning ahead in this theoretical argument in which he had planned his main verbal assault, having expected her to respond in kind. Rather her honesty surprised him, leaving him quite unsure how to respond.

He parted his lips to reply, only for the sound of crunching leaves and shifting dirt to disturb the silence. The fire crackled and likely illuminated the cab for miles around, acting as a homing beacon for the entire forest. He saw Freydis’ entire body seize up and the whites of her eyes become clearly than ever. 

She was petrified, and the footsteps were much too heavy to be those of wolves or even any of the Ragnarssons. Rather, it was the sound of heavy boots and tinkling chain mail as fully-grown men approached the cabin.

There was a gruff knock on the door, to which Freydis soundlessly rose to a low crawl and made her way to Ivar, who was equally as paralyzed with fear. She placed both hands on his shoulders, trying to shake him from his stupor as the men began talking.

“Just knock the door down, Ortsik, there’s nobody home,” the first voice snapped, booming through he sound of the fire crackling. “And if there is, we will just kill them as sacrifices to the gods.”

Freydis attempted to shake Ivar, yet his muscles had stiffened and he found himself trapped within his own unmovable body. She repeated his whispered name before struggling to hook her forearms underneath his armpits to move him, without much success. Her own heart hammered in her chest, threatening to break free of her ribcage if the tensions rose any higher. The pair was alone and poorly armed in an uninhabited forest far from Kattegat, and that on its own was enough to set Freydis on edge without the threat of rogues.

“No, I definitely heard voices,” replied the deeper voice in a menacing snarl before the sound of moving chain mail could be heard. “Knock down the door, Bjorg… We shall soon find out who is inside. Maybe then we will decide whether or not they can live.”


	5. Chapter 5

**WARNINGS**  
This chapter contains graphic violence and threats of violence. If this makes you uncomfortable or is too difficult to read, a non-explicit summary of the chapter will be provided at the bottom.

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In his mind, Ivar had always imagined the day any man made the grave mistake of threatening him. He would crush their bones, snap their tendons and cause their skin to boil from their limbs, and leave no doubt in what tiny minds they had that it was a mortal sin to attack Ivar, son of Ragnar Lothbrok.

However all those thoughts evaporated in the face of true danger. The door had been knocked clean off its rusty hinges by the half-hearted shoulder charge of the stockier of the pair known as Bjorg. His dirty blonde beard was matted with blood and spit as he stared down the two children huddled together. He narrowed his eyes at the leather straps binding the boy’s legs, and the protective way the dark haired girl curled an arm around his chest. 

Siblings perhaps? The girl had narrower features and such dark eyes in comparison to the cripple that he crossed out that option, but the pile of unused weapons in a cowhide suggested there were others aside from them. He whistled to his companion, who ducked into the room and followed his gaze to the stash.

“Woahoho, these are some fine weapons, Bjorg,” he rumbled in a deep voice that contradicted his tall and sinewy appearance. The man Freydis guessed was Ortsik, was clean shaven yet still grimy with sweat and mud. Waves of stench rolled of them and Freydis all but recoiled when the taller intruder looked her way.

She found herself tightening her grip on Ivar who was so paralyzed with fear Freydis wondered if he even remembered to breathe. “Take w-what you want and go, we will not fight it,” she stammered, eliciting an unreadable smirk from Ortsik.

“Naturally we will take everything you have to give,” he replied barely above a mumble. “And then some.” 

Bjorg reached out with chubby, dirt-crusted fingers and jerked Freydis’ wrist from Ivar’s chest and pulled her away from him. She yelped and struggled against his iron tight grip that seemed as though it would snap the joint without a second thought. He rolled the bearskin she wore between his sordid fingers before yanking it clean off her.

“This is an expensive pelt, girl. You must have some rich parents, hm?” He hissed. “I bet you got more things like this lying around.”

“N-No I don’t! I swear, it was a gift from Earl Ygraf!” Freydis cried in response, struggling against the man’s grip. 

Ivar was glued to the spot, numbly staring as Freydis was being held off the ground by her wrist. She, too, was petrified, though to him it all seemed surreal. 

The intruders made eye contact for a moment before Ortsik revealed a row of partially rotted teeth in some twisted grin. “Oh? A gift from an earl, eh? Then what are you, some sort of child consort?”

Freydis shook her head violently, though no words would escape her mouth, try as she might. Daggers hung from both their hips, gleaming in the light of the slow burning fire as well as the impossibly large axe strung over Bjorg’s back that acted to consciously threaten her with the thought of him burying it deep into her skull. She felt toyed with, like a cat batting at an injured bird before sinking his needle sharp teeth into its feathers. Bjorg glanced over her body for any jewelry or decorative weapons, though she wore her only mucky clothes and some worn out boots.

“Nothing on this one,” Bjorg muttered. “But I heard there is a Swedish king who quite fancies girls this age, and she’ll be a pretty thing when she is older. Could fetch a decent price?”

The skinny intruder let out a ‘tsk’ of annoyance before crouching down to eye level with Ivar, eyes skimming over the cripple’s clothes. He examined his leather vest and slacks with the tip of his knife and gently felt the soft cotton of his tunic. It was softer than any hemp or linen he had ever known, whilst the leather was soft and supple, unlike the dried out hides of peasants. Small decorative wolves were embroided along the edge of the vest in such brightly pigmented thread that no doubt was left in his mind about what kind of family the cripple came from.

“The cripple’s got some good quality clothing, must be some merchant’s son,” Ortsik explained and snickered as Ivar plucked up the courage to try and jerk himself away. “Make a good ransom from the boy, sell the girl and steal everything here! Good days work aye, Bjorg?”

Ivar growled and reached for the small knife strapped to the underside of his leg before swiftly swinging it out in a crescent motion towards Ortsik’s face. However the man easily dodged it, stood and swung out a booted foot which connected with the side of Ivar’s jaw. His head ricocheted back and he landed on the palm of his hand, the other clutching his jaw.

“This brat!” He howled and landed another swift kick to the cripple’s thigh, causing Ivar to cry out in pain at the sharp blossoming of pain in his particularly sensitive leg. 

And, like cool water brushing over a fresh burn, an eerie calm befell Freydis. All conscious and rational thought seemed irrelevant in light of this new trance she entered and her struggle ceased. Although the bearskin had been crumpled up by the intruder’s careless grip, it didn’t change the fact that Freydis was worthy of the Beserker’s attire. It was an ornamental skin, whilst the true gift from the gods lay dormant within until some fine hair trigger was loosed and the girl drowned in the inky darkness that accompanied surrendering to the calm. 

Yet the calm lasted only for the briefest of moments before a terrible rage overcame Freydis, leaving her blacked out. Her free arm instinctively reached out for the first thing she could grab, which happened to be the dagger lazily slapping against Bjorg’s hip as he laughed at the cripple’s failed attack. Her small hands gripped it tightly and plunged it into the side of his neck before the man could even hope to react.

It split the skin at his jugular, plunging through the front and buried so deep that even the hilt had begun to enter his throat. His eye’s bulged in shock until the realisation of pain set in, but by then his windpipe had flooded with the hot, red liquid he so desperately needed. The man dropped Freydis and clutched the wound as Freydis jerked the weapon out, only for both to collapse on the dirt floor. Blood jetted from his neck in time with his heartbeat, lathering the girl’s face while his fleshy fingers attempted to cover the gaping hole, to no avail. Within seconds he was dead, lifeless and glazed over eyes staring at the floor whilst the crazed Beserker he had flattened crawled out from underneath him.

Ortsik’s cry of rage fell on deaf ears as Freydis hurled the knife at the currently unarmed man, lodging it deep within his shoulder. He stumbled to one knee and howled in pain as Freydis snatched up a large flat rock that made up the base of the fireplace and lifted it high above her head.

Even in his dream-like trance, Ivar could immediately predict what would happen. Freydis would bring the rock down onto the man’s hand, likely concaving his skull, which is exactly what followed. Though the following brutally shocked even him.

His skin split and the pain blinded Ortsik where had he been struck, and he too fell face first to the ground. Yet the rage lodged deep in Freydis’ mind had already taken control, and before she could gain control of her faculties once more her body moved on its own to bring the rock hurtling down to his skull again. And again. And again. And again and again and again and-

Much like before the calm returned and Freydis froze with the bloodied rock above her head. She realised the rock had been connecting with the ground for some time and looked down to see nothing but a mixture of dirt, skull and brain ground into the earth. Nothing of the former Ortsik’s head remained but his shattered skull. The rock held above her head dripped with hot blood onto her forehead and she let it fall to the side.

It had happened again. 

Though when Freydis awoke this time, she knew what she had done. Flashes of the sound of bone cracking and being crushed by such blunt force pounded in her ears and with a scream she kicked herself away from the corpse. Blood trickled from her hairline down to her brow, stinging as it worked its way into her eyes and she was momentarily blinded. Freydis dashed her hands across her eyes to clear them, only for the blood on her hands to cause them to sting all the more. Whether it was Ortsik’s or Bjorg’s she could no longer tell, but the horror stung far more than anything her body could physically feel.

Ivar watched with mouth ajar as the timid, unsuspecting Freydis made light work of their attacker’s skull, grinding it into the dust like ripe grape. It was simultaneously enthralling and humiliating to watch as he could do naught but watch as a mere girl defended him. Yet he had sat paralysed and helpless until Freydis entered her Beserker trance. 

He clutched the blade until his knuckles turned an unearthly shade of white. It should’ve been him causing such carnage in his own defence, rather than Freydis who could only heave in air through her blood crusted lips following the counter attack. It should’ve been him covered in blood for his brothers to return and fear him, but now it would be Freydis. The Beserker. The one everyone instinctively feared upon seeing the watchful eyes of her bearskin.

Now they would forever only see him as Ivar, the Cripple. 

He watched her try to swipe the layer of blood from her face and arms, but it was too thickly coated and had already stained her clothes. Ivar sighed and dragged himself over to her with a hand extended towards her check. Instinctively the girl flinched back, dark eyes unable to see much through the searing blood in her eyes.

“Stop crying, it is over, Freydis,” Ivar muttered as he pushed further and rubbed the trickling blood away from her eyes. “Do not act like such a coward.” Whilst he knew full well her agonized whimpering wasn’t from fear but horror at her own actions, he couldn’t bring himself to sympathise.

For the first time in his life, Ivar was forced to admit that he was useless. Not because of his physical handicap, but because of how fear had managed to cripple him more than his legs ever could. It was a harsh realisation for the young Viking, yet in spite of it he couldn’t help but admire Freydis’ determined loyalty to him. Even if her wailing did drive him mad.

With the heel of his palm, he smeared away the blood that smarted her eyes and rubbed it off on his own vest until Freydis was able to blink away her tears. Every so often she would hiccup or the trembling in her lip would resume until dawn finally broke and the rest of the Ragnarssons returned to find their youngest brother and his companion slumped in silence by the side of the cabin. 

Immediately Ubbe’s eyes were drawn to the mask of blood coating Freydis’ face, torso and arms, as well as the red palms of Ivar’s hands. Between himself and Hvitserk they shouldered a young doe, which he promptly dropped and briskly approached the pair. Neither looked up at the approaching teenager, instead they blankly stared out to the forest. His blue eyes scanned over their worryingly blank expressions before he loomed over his youngest brother.

“What… What did you do, Ivar?” Ubbe questioned in little more than a growl, immediately suspecting the boy of having butchered some innocent animal, though I didn’t quite explain why the girl was covered in more blood than him.

Ivar glared up with stark blue eyes and murmured, “Go have a look for yourself, Ubbe. They are still there.”

“They…?” Ubbe’s eyes widened with realisation and he bolted into the cabin to find a spray of blood across the fireplace and ground, and a tiny stream of dried gore dribbling away from what used to be a head and a headless body. Bile rose up in his throat of the sight of bone and brain scattered across the dirt floor but he choked it down.

It was gruesome like a scene from one of Floki’s unearthly tales of the gods intended to terrify the brothers, but seeing it for himself had Ubbe horrified. Hvitserk glanced around his brother but was quickly pushed back almost roughly. 

“No, Hvitserk,” he exclaimed animatedly. “You don’t want to see.”

“What in Odin’s name is in there-”

By the way his younger brother pushed past him and immediately halted in his sentence, Ubbe held no doubt in his mind that the unsettling scene had affected him in the same way. They refused to let Sigurd through, however. He was still too young to see such things. 

Freydis felt numb and her mind raced in a desperate plea to deny that any of that night’s events had ever happened. Ivar had commanded her outside and away from the mess, where they sat in relative silence until the sun shyly appeared beyond the horizon. Whilst the sight of such brutal violence had not appalled him per say, it was unnerving to see his friend (if he could call her even that) retreat further into herself than she ever had. Although her puppy-like following was irritating at the best of times, particularly since Ivar was aware she was more a glorified body guard than anything, he hated this display of weakness more. It frustrated him that such a gift was being wasted on a girl like her, when the more ‘Viking’ of the pair was left crippled.

In a meager display of gratitude and solidarity, Ivar slid ever so slightly against the wooden walls of the cabin and rest his shoulder slightly on hers. Gentle warmth spread through her chest for the first time that night and her eyelids flickered with recognition of where she was.

Still at the cabin, unfortunately. Ubbe tried to wash the blood from her face and arms, but didn’t bother with her soiled tunic, as it couldn’t be salvaged. She was left with an overly red hue staining her skin, yet it was better than nothing. He exchanged inaudible words with Ivar, standing a little further from him than he had in the past for some reason unknown to Freydis. 

When they finished, Ivar’s vivid eyes found her inky ones, and she managed a grim smile, which he returned with the slightest upturn of his lips. It was comforting, if only a little, but for Freydis is was worth more than its weight in gold.

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Summary: Two intruders threaten to sell Freydis and ransom Ivar, to which Ivar lashes out and is struck, but Freydis goes Beserk and kills both the intruders, which she and the Ragnarssons find horrifying, though it doesn’t effect Ivar too much. The pair grow closer due to the ordeal, Freydis becomes more dedicated to him and he grows more attached to her, whilst Ubbe begins to fear his brother’s brutality and lack of conscience.


	6. Chapter 6

**NOTE**  
Sorry guys, just a filler this time :/  
But in the near future be prepared for a (drum roll please) time skip!! Can't wait to get to the good bits! Sorry for the slow lead up though :(

 

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When the small group returned, the gaze of absolute panic that befell Queen Aslaug as she laid eyes on the darkening bruise on her youngest son’s jawline caused Freydis to step away from Ivar as Hvitserk shouldered him alone. Ubbe stepped forward to hold his mother, but was forcefully brushed away by Aslaug in her desperation to embrace her son.

She pulled him up and close to her chest, curling a hand around the back of his head to rest it against her shoulder. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, smudging her dark kohl makeup somewhat.

Finally the woman pulled away from Ivar who had begun to struggle and examined the fairly large bruise with a critical stare before looking over his shoulder to Freydis. Her hands were firmly clasped together and she was chewing on her bottom lip. The front of the girl’s tunic was dyed a suspicious shade of red, whilst the fur of her Beserker bearskin was deeply matted with blood. Splatterings of it remained on her face, though it was clearly someone had tried to clean her up as best they could. 

Through threatening tears, Aslaug looked to her eldest son Ubbe and hissed, “What happened? Why is Ivar injured so?”

He let the young doe that was strung across his back fall to the ground and dusted his hands on his trousers. A tense moment passed as the Queen pressed the question again in a strange growl. There was a sting of betrayal, or perhaps annoyance at her complete disregard for the rest of her children, but he let it pass by burying deep in his heart so far none could see.

“What about us, Mother?” Sigurd snapped as if to voice the unanimous complaint. “You do not care if we are okay?”

Aslaug’s face twisted in frustration and she set her son on a low stool by the fire. “Just answer the question, Ubbe. What happened?”

“Freydis and I were just defending ourselves,” Ivar answered nonchalantly whilst staring deep into the fire. He then looked up to his Mother with a crooked grin in an effort to let her drop the conversation, for if she pressed any harder he knew it would likely be revealed that it was Freydis, in fact, who had done most of the defending.

“From who?!” 

“We were out hunting when two criminals broke into the cabin-” Ubbe began in a low tone until his Mother’s attention whipped back to him.

Her eyes were wide and enraged as she interjected, saying, “You left Ivar alone in the woods?”

“No, Freydis was with him,” Hvitserk quickly added in defence of his brother. “She killed both the men. Smashed one’s head with a rock, there was nothing left of it except gristle and blood in the dirt.”

Aslaug opened her mouth to respond, but found that no words would come out. She looked over the bleary-eyed girl with suspicion, noting how the tips of her fingers trembled incessantly, though whether from trauma or nervousness the Queen could not tell. Many eyes were glued to the drama, watching as the Queen had raised her voice ever louder and as Hvitserk unthinkingly announced the murders of two men by a young girl. It caused the faces of many servant women to ashen at the thought of a skull that had been pounded into oblivion. 

Not to be outdone by the girl, Ivar said, “But I cut his throat beforehand.”

“There was no blood on you, idiot,” Sigured sneered. “As if we’d believe that.”

“Shut up, Sigurd. You weren’t even there,” he snapped with teeth bared. The motion caused his jaw to ache as he ground his teeth tightly and looked to Freydis for support. “Tell them, Freydis.”

Freydis gaped with mouth ajar, truthfully unable to remember whether or not Ivar had indeed cut the intruder’s throat. Once he had kicked Ivar in the jaw everything was but a blur, no matter how hard she tried to remember, until the moment she returned consciousness, covered in blood and kneeling above that headless body. Freydis feared that if she thought too hard and tried to recall her actions as a Beserker, she would come to regret it. While aware that she had done terrible things, Freydis was at least grateful she had no recollection of it happening. 

Instead, the desperate and imploring gaze of Ivar was unwavering and her mind was drawn back to that small comfort he had provided at the cabin, and how he had tried to clean the blood from her eyes. 

“It’s true… I only killed one of them,” she murmured, hoping that it was enough to convince Sigurd and the others. Sigurd glared her down but said nothing, apparently accepting Freydis’ word as truth.

Queen Aslaug’s eyes met hers and, as she began to walk towards the family’s personal quarters, those cat-like eyes seemed to beckon her. The young girl felt the impersonal urge to follow that defied any sense of self-preservation leaving no doubt in Freydis’ mind that the woman was surely a witch. As they passed the mesh divider and light dimmed to only a faint glow peering through the gaps in the fabric and onto their faces, a hand lashed out and struck her across the face.

Shock and blistering pain smarted her vision and a visible handprint was left imprinted on her cheek, leaving Freydis to numbly touch the spot Aslaug had struck her. The girl looked up at the beautiful Queen with round, questioning eyes so plaintive that Alsaug almost regretted slapping her. Almost.

Rage at what had happened to her own child blinded her to any sort of pity when thoughts of the deepening bruise on his jaw surfaced. Aslaug drew her raised hand back to her side, sat Freydis on the edge of her bed and knelt before her, gripping her arms so tightly that vivid finger marks were left on her skin. She tried to shrink away under the distraught way Aslaug stared into her eyes, the pale yellow light of the hall’s fire casting light on her light brown hair. 

“I know Ivar did not kill that man,” she began before squeezing Freydis’ arms even tighter, threatening to cause the girl to yelp. “But that wound… That’s on you, Freydis. You didn’t protect him well enough, but you will next time, right?”

“I-I don’t-” Freydis stammered.

“I am no fool, girl. My sons may believe the lies Ivar has you spew, but I know better,” she said in a low tone as she slowly eased her grasp on the girl’s arms. “Ivar only wants his brother’s respect, and he thinks fear is the only way to gain it. You did the right thing in agreeing with him, I will not forget that.”

Freydis said nothing, unsure if she was being punished or praised until Aslaug placed a gentle hand on the Beserker’s cheek. She flinched away, fearing she would be hit once again.

Aslaug withdrew her hand and sighed, saying, “Regardless of how you did it, you saved my son. And now I know I can trust you to keep him alive.” She thought back to the Seer’s words, struggling to smother the rising jealousy of knowing how much of a threat the young girl seated before her would become in the tricky game of Ivar’s affections.

The Queen placed both hands behind Freydis’ nape and pulled her forehead to her own until they touched, feeling the tenseness of the muscles in the girl’s neck. “Freydis, he will come to love you… But never more than me, do you understand?” The nervous nod of her head caused Aslaug’s fingers to dig deeper into her neck, nails scratching almost violently against her tender flesh. “Never, Freydis.”

The threatening mood was all at once shattered by the intrusion of light when the divider was pushed away and a voice called out, “Mother?”

Hvitserk had always known his mother to be relatively cold and at times harsh, though never had he expected her to be cruel. No, that was Ivar’s job and yet the sight of his mother practically hissing at a ten year old and digging her nails into her neck had shocked him. He gawped for a moment as Aslaug removed herself from the compromising encounter with a mention of tending to her youngest son. Freydis sat equally as stunned before her eyes flickered to Hvitserk’s and she pulled the bearskin around her face in shame. The powerlessness and fear was crushing her, threatening to splinter her ribcage and have her heart run away with its emotions if pushed any further.

He gently approached her and looped an arm beneath her armpit and steadied her until she could safely stand on two feet. It was enough to try and survive Ivar’s temper let alone Aslaug’s quiet fury, and it seemed to him as though the poor girl was stuck between a rock and a hard place. 

“Do not pay any attention to Mother, she just worries for our little brother excessively,” he cooed in an attempt to console her. “And she is not normally so cruel, so she will not hurt you.”

“I… Don’t understand what I am doing wrong, Hvitserk,” Freydis replied and the boy was slightly taken aback by the tentative way she had said his name, like a young puppy unsure of its boundaries. 

Hvitserk tilted his head in sympathy but quickly flashed her a small grin. “It is not you, Freydis. It is them and their silly ways. They are like old people: unable to ever change.”

For the first time since she had joined the royal family as Ivar’s unfortunate betrothed, he heard the gentlest tinkling laugh escape from Freydis’ lips. It was like the sound of clear wind chimes ringing out into the soft breeze that bade them sing. However the sound was quickly choked out as Ivar’s voice carried over the tender moment, calling out for Freydis.

Instead of laughter, the girl smiled timidly up at Hvitserk and stepped around him to rejoin her betrothed in the Great Hall. The young teen was unsure if they were friends or bonded over some perturbed sense of loyalty, yet the way she responded almost instantaneously to his beckoning had an unfamiliar sting in his chest, leaving a vile taste on his tongue. It was foreign but unpleasant, and totally unlike anything else he had experienced before. Hvitserk concluded that he disliked the way Freydis responded to Ivar’s cruelty with unfailing loyalty and to some extent it was true, though his mind was too immature to comprehend the base jealous that simmered just below that thought.

He eventually followed her out and watched her take a seat beside Ivar, noting how he almost gently touched the red handprint on her face before cheekily pinching the sore skin until she flailed, begging him to let go. Ivar only laughed in response but ultimately released Freydis, commenting on how much of a baby she was.

The joke seemed to lift her spirits somewhat and the pair began to talk with their heads close together, likely about the warriors and servants passing through the Great Hall. He would occasionally yell something incoherent as Freydis tried to shush him out of embarrassment, only to have him laugh once more at her humiliation at the attention.

Nonetheless it was companionable, something Ivar had never experienced before. Not even with his brothers. Freydis humoured his antics and good-naturedly forgave him when he was unwittingly cruel, for that was Ivar and nothing could possibly change him.

Something Freydis would, unfortunately, come to learn in the years that would follow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the final episode of season four… ooo boi Ivar you really done goofed up there.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone else who commented, it’s really appreciated!
> 
> **NOTE**  
> This chapter is set in the Winter at the start of the same year the Ragnar returns, so the lead up to the Summer raids in which Ivar and Ragnar go to England.  
> **WARNING**  
> Graphic violence inspired by a horror movie, summary will be provided below.

A landscape of ice and jutting rock was all the surrounded them with a slate-coloured sky hanging overhead, threatening to unleash a snow storm at anymoment. The bluish hue that engulfed the underside of the clouds betrayed that, and Ivar couldn’t help but wish their hunting trip would be over.

He hated spending long hours on the ice fishing and hunting for seals, as the fish were rare and seals rarer still. Freydis stood poised with a long spear aimed high above an open gap in the ice they had made pre-dawn and the sun was beginning to set. She had hardly moved a muscle since then, only concentrating on the gentle ripples of water at the surface.

Ivar had long since given up on catching any fish and instead lay back on the ice to stare at the brooding sky. Mountain crests dotted the horizon as the sun began to dip below their snowy caps, and he groaned heavily at the prospect of crawling home in the dark and cold, only to be berated by his mother once they arrived back. Her nagging drove him insane often enough that he would rather avoid them as best he could.

As the cripple began to voice his concerns he was swiftly shushed by Freydis who had been eyeing off a dark shape gliding below the surface of the ice. Its shape was near undetectable, though her keen eyes followed it intensely and without blinking. Ivar heard the water break and Freydis shift her feet slightly to drive the spear into the seal’s skull. He twisted his head to see her long, corded braid fall across her shoulder and atop her breast as she raised the spear higher. It reminded Ivar of the dark silks brought through Kattegat by traders from the east: glossy and priceless.

Ivar let out a sudden shout, and the blubbery seal disappeared back beneath the ice before its head at broken past the surface, its dark form disappearing beyond Freydis’ sight. He shot her a wicked grin, lavishing in the deep frustration and annoyance that lit up her eyes. 

She tossed the spear side wards at him and hissed in frustration, “Dammit, Ivar! Why would you do that?” 

He blocked the long wooden staff of the spear with his forearm and shrugged nonchalantly. The rise and fall of her chest betrayed her annoyance, or perhaps just the rush of adrenaline from striking so quickly, though Ivar suspected the former. A flush of red blotted Freydis’ cheeks as she spoke, glaring down at the one who had sabotaged their hunt for no apparent reason.

“Because I wanted to see you get mad,” Ivar replied whilst maintaining that devilish smirk that too often held a meaning other than what he conveyed. Truth be told he had intended for her to get mad, if only to push the boundaries of her seemingly endless patience. 

Freydi’s dark eyes narrowed, aware that he often acted counter intuitively for his own amusement. One of his favourite games was too see how far he could push her before she snapped, showing him a glimpse of her rare frustration. For days Ivar would yank on Freydis’ long braid, spill ale on her dresses or pinch her ass all in the hope of having the girl step out from her usual façade of being entirely settled in calm, when in reality her Beserker side simmered just below the surface.

To Ivar, her Beserker gift was an entirely fascinating thing to watch as it contrasted her normal personality like night and day, or like Ivar and Freydis themselves. Both were so different but shared a threatening rage that took only the barest of moments to become unleashed.

Freydis bit deeply into her lip as her chest heaved with frustration at having wasted an entire day due to Ivar’s immature jokes, and made to stomp past him and towards Kattegat. She scooped up her rucksack and looped it over her shoulder, passing Ivar without so much as a glance. The spear lay forgotten on the ice as Freydis tried to leave him behind only for him to reach up and latch onto her wrist, dragging her down to the icey ground with him.

Yanked back by her arm, Freydis’ boots slid across the ice in front of her and she fell flat on her back beside Ivar so quickly her mind whirled as it tried to comprehend how she had ended up on her back. However when her mind registered the loose grip Ivar continued to hold on her small wrist, Freydis went entirely still as if the slightest movement might jeopardise the rare display of affection on Ivar’s behalf. With stilling breath and numb fingers, Ivar slowly inched his fingers from their grip and back to his side. 

Neither said anything for many moments until Ivar looked to his side, catching a glimpse of the girl beside him as she stared up at the brooding sky with parted lips. Gentle mist floated from her mouth and was eventually lost to the air as she watched the world above her, the rise and fall of her chest slow and rhythmic like the tide. 

Freydis had grown into her bearskin in the six years since she had earned it, and it no longer skimmed the ground as she moved about. Rather it curled around the curve of her body and just grazed her mid calf, hiding the young woman beneath from the world. Though it was as she wanted, as Freydis had never enjoyed the many eyes that seemed to follow her at every moment on account of the foreboding warning the bearskin promised. She had grown into a woman in every sense of the word: stronger and more confident to a degree. That is she had improved from her youth but continued to shy away from strangers or conflict.

The young woman shifted her attention to Ivar, catching him staring back at her with an unreadable expression. He quickly rolled onto his stomach as the first signs of snow landed on his lips, signaling it was high time to leave. The leather coverings of his hands scrapped along the ground as he crawled away from the ice fishing hole, leaving Freydis to once again retrieve her rucksack, spear and what few fish they had managed to catch. Their sleek, silvery bodies glinted in the diminishing sunlight as the pair travelled in near silence as the snowfall grew ever heavier.

By the time they had arrived back at Kattegat the snow carpeted the town with an inch of white powder and Ivar’s fingers stung with the bitter cold. The wind had picked up considerably and had begun to batter Freydis around as she unsteadily tottered towards the Great Hall. With the strength she could muster after the difficult walk she opened one of the doors only wide enough so that both could pass through, lest too much of the chilling wind enter.

Ivar crawled in and hoisted himself onto a stool by the bright fire as Freydis hung the fish on a string and looped it over a hook hanging from the rafters. She sat diagonally to him on the stone edge of the fire, reveling in the heat it projected. 

Noticing the tips of his fingers tingled with the numbing cold, she gently clasped them in her own. Although her hands were ashen from the quickly dropping temperatures, his had begun turning purple and so she took the opportunity to rub them gently. 

“We should have come back earlier,” Freydis mumbled, eyes focused on their clasped hands. Never had she the nerve to touch him like this, and it made her heart flutter uncomfortably in spite of the innocent care behind it. “It fell too cold and dark so quickly.”

Ivar scoffed and pulled back his hands to press them close to the flickering flames. “That’s what I was trying to say before you shushed me,” he glowered. The movement had been involuntary yet he couldn’t bring himself to undo it.

Freydis tilted her head slightly, causing hair frayed braid to fall from the weak throng that held it in place. He had pulled back without a second thought, leaving her hands glacially cold, though not from the frosty air. It seemed he had sucked more warmth from her in the act than the wintery nights ever could. And yet Freydis had expected such a reaction.

The young woman bit her tongue and said, “I shall let your mother know we have returned.”

Grunting in reply, Ivar hardly moved as his companion rose from the fireside to fetch Aslaug, who she guessed was likely in the private quarters. The Great Hall itself was bustling with slaves and servants trying to heat up the structure with fire and steam as quickly as they could, and yet on her way to Aslaug, Hvitserk managed to eye her off amongst the crowd. 

He caught her attention and within moments he was in front of her, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “Did you forget to say hello, Freydis?” Hvisterk jested whilst clasping her shoulder with his warm hand. She shuffled in her thick boots at having been caught out forgetting to be polite, but nonetheless shook her head in reply.

“Sorry, Ivar and I only just returned, and I need to fetch Queen Aslaug,” Freydis replied and inched away from his grip. She never minded his company, although his over assertiveness had always caused a seed of discomfort to lodge itself inside his mind.

Hvisterk’s eyes darted up, making contact with Ivar’s and he tried to suppress the emerging smirk that threatened to give away his intentions. Freydis was quite clearly hurt by Ivar’ unintended rejection, and yet the youngest Ragnarsson still scowled possessively at him as he pressed an innocent kiss to Freydis’ cheek. Getting under his skin was simple enough, particularly as Ivar would never make himself vulnerable enough to bring Freydis any closer. Only on his terms when he was ready, which unfortunately enough wasn’t often.

“Why don’t you join me for dinner?” He asked, hoping to ensnare her with his dark eyes that were so unlike that of his brothers. They were wide and plaintive, almost begging her to agree until she glanced over her shoulder in Ivar’s direction.

He had begun too drink deeply from a stein of mead, glaring over the rim of it with a brooding expression. Ivar looked back to the fire, obviously displeased. The Beserker chewed on her lip as she turned her attentions to Hvitserk once again.

“Ivar is in a foul mood, so I… will but I don’t think he will agree,” Freydis replied as she pinched the fabric of her winter trousers nervously. “But I really must find your mother, if you don’t mind.”

Instead of stepping aside to let Freydis pass, Hvitserk leaned in closer, saying, “Why not have one night without Ivar? You spend every minute of the day with him, and he is a big boy now he can look out for himself.”

By the way he spoke of his younger brother as a ‘boy’, it was clear to Freydis that Hvitserk continued to hold little respect for Ivar, likely perpetuated by the latters response to minor provocations. Truth be told, in spite of Ivar’s generally foul attitude, she could not bring herself to dislike him for it, let alone hate him. Rather the love for him that had formed when they were but children was not extinguished, but rather inflamed as the years passed. It wasn’t an overwhelming passion or burning lust for Freydis as women had described in their fleeting loves that never lasted the summer. On the contrary it was it unmovable and steadfast like the great mountain ranges that surrounded Kattegat. 

Freydis sucked air in sharply between her teeth and said, “I will ask Ivar. Now excuse me.” Her curt farewell was followed by the girl briskly side stepping Hvitserk and all but marching to the family’s royal quarters in search of Aslaug, whom she found staring blankly through the mesh divider, cup in hand.

The Queen seemed to have many such moments, all attributed to Harbard and what little Ivar had told her of him. It seemed to Freydis that Ivar had a very conflicting view of Harbard in that he was simultaneously grateful and resentful to the man for what he had done. When Freydis had asked if he were truly a man and not a god, Ivar simply glowered and said nothing more on the matter.

Aslaug stirred slightly and looked to Freydis sullenly. “You’re back,” she said shortly and stood, flattening out the crinkles in her dress. “Where is Ivar?”

“By the fire, he does not seem to be in a good mood,” Freydis replied in a gentle voice and followed the woman out as she went to greet her favourite son. The Queen’s friendliness towards Freydis had been diminishing the older the girl grew, and particularly as Ivar began choosing Freydis’ company over that of his own mother’s. She was, apparently, not taking Ivar’s transition into manhood well.

When he saw his mother approaching, the foulness in his expression did not lift, rather it deepened and he spoke into his stein saying, “Hello, Mother. I was going to come greet you soon.”

“Not lately you haven’t been,” Aslaug scoffed before leaning down to embrace her son in a hug that was not entirely reciprocated. “And you two were gone for such a very long time, I was beginning to worry you would be caught out in the storm.”

“We did, but not that you need concern yourself, Mother. I am able to look after myself now,” retorted Ivar, almost indignant at the well-placed concern of Queen Aslaug. Snowstorms were a truly dangerous threat that snuffed out the lives of many a traveller or those too poor to afford luxuries such as thick animal furs or seal blubber. Though Ivar clearly had no idea of the struggles of common folk.

In most ways Ivar was correct in that he could care for himself, however his over compensation by way of false bravado often got him into deep waters with those around him. The presence of a Beserker, as evidenced by the large bearskin his companion wore, often deterred any form of backlash, leaving Ivar untouchable and able to scathingly criticize his brothers and other warriors with little to no repercussions.

And yet that night his self-reliance would be tested through blood and brutality.

Aslaug’s face twisted with distaste for the way in which her son spoke, though it was present for only the barest of moments before she assumed her usual demure smile. Clearly she was not yet drunk enough to have all comments breeze over her head.

She then turned to Freydis and said, “Freydis, go and fetch Ivar some cured meat from the larder house for his stew. Just a vegetable stew will not be enough tonight.”

“She is not a slave,” Ivar grunted, setting his stein of mead on the stones that made up the edge of the long hearth. “Have one of the servants do it.”

The atmosphere was growing tense as the two strong-willed individuals began to butt heads.

“As your betrothed, surely she should begin learning her wifely duties?” Aslaug said levelly.

“The wife of a prince should not do a servant’s duty, we will have plenty to do that for us,” replied Ivar in a false light tone that betrayed his growing annoyance. Freydis saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a telltale sign that his patience would not last much longer. “Besides, I do not remember you ever fetching Father anything from the larder house.”

“You were too young to remember,” she hissed.

Ivar tilted his head in an unspoken threat that he was willing to go to any lengths in order to win the argument, though Freydis couldn’t tell if it was for her sake or for Ivar’s own stubbornness. 

“I remember well enough,” Ivar muttered and turned his attention back to the fire, sparing Freydis only a brief flash of his brilliant blue eyes. The look made Freydis’ heart flutter in her chest and caused her cheeks to be tinted pink. She was accustomed to defending Ivar’s cruel comments and slyness in spite of how much he likely deserved to be hit for them, and yet the joy of being defended herself was overwhelming, threatening to spill out in a broad smile.

However she contained herself silently as Aslaug relented and called a slave to fetch the cured meat before silently gliding back to take her place on the throne. Aslaug’s side-eyed disapproval of Freydis was not lost on the girl and she struggled not to shrink under the beautiful queen’s gaze. No doubt was left in Freydis’ mind that Aslaug possessed some form of magic for the way her eyes seemed to make the girl’s blood freeze.

Ivar’s defensive actions had entirely made up for his prior rejection in her mind, and so she resumed her seat beside him, sitting a little closer than she had before. Whilst he was aware of Freydis’ utter adoration for him, for whatever reason he was not yet sure of himself, he had never encouraged any romantic relationship. 

She was not unattractive, but rather quite pretty as she had grown up with a small nose, pink cheeks and skin unmarked by disease. Her eyes gleamed brightly with life and the dark locks that had fallen from their braid to frame her face were so long and dark that they almost resembled midnight.

And yet, in spite of her physical attractiveness when Ivar stared at Freydis what made his heart truly beat faster was memories of her falling under the spell of the Beserker nearly eight years ago in which she brutally slaughtered to men four times her size. Like a feral dog with strength beyond bodily capabilities she had killed them and their blood littered the floor and walls like ocean spray. Ivar longed to see that spectacle again, to watch as such a dangerous creature could destroy all around it but him, as though he was the one with the true power in the room.

The commotion in the Great Hall began to die down as the night wound on, with many of the slaves cleaning up the mess and retiring to their quarters. Ivar and Freydis eventually joined his brothers, to the dismay of most of the brothers for one reason or another. It was painfully obvious how much Sigurd disliked Ivar for his crass nature, whilst Ubbe was on edge at the very sound of Freydis’ prim voice that littered the conversation on occasion. It appeared as though he would never overlook that night in the cabin or what he had seen, forever on guard for one of her Beserker outbursts. 

Freydis sat close enough to her betrothed that their legs barely brushed, though she wondered if Ivar could feel the light touch at all or had simply chosen to ignore it. In the dimness of the fire and the low voices of the Ragnarssons, she managed to pluck up the courage to even allow her shoulder to skim against his. The touch was light, though Freydis was sure he noticed that time by the brief flicker of his eyes from the conversation. 

He was belittling Sigurd and his outlandish hairstyle in particular, though barely skipped a breath as he minced around the intense distaste both held for each other. Yet most of what he said was muffled out by the sudden and very raucous laughter of a table of warriors not far from them and closer to the hearth. Their voices illuminated the Great Hall with howls of laughter.

“Be quiet you fat oafs,” Ivar hollered back over his shoulder. “Nobody wants to hear your shitty stories of false conquest.”

Ubbe dragged a hand down his face at the oncoming conflict, whilst Freydis shrunk back into her seat facing away from the boisterous group. Conflict on such a nice night was the last thing she wanted, or indeed needed in general though Hvitserk gave an encouraging smirk as if to egg his little brother on.

Drunk of mead, the largest of the warriors retorted with, “Shut it, little boy! This hall ‘ere was built on the backs of raids I fought in.”

“Actually it was built on the back of my father, King Ragnar,” he seethed back, earning a unanimous groan from the Ragnarssons, to which Ivar shot them scathing looks. “My brother’s all know it, don’t they?”

“Don’t drag us into fights about father, Ivar,” Sigurd grunted in a low voice. “You know how I feel about him.”

“Yes, Sigurd. We all know how you feel every moment of the day, all you do is whinge like a little child,” he growled back with a snarl forming on his lips. 

“Uh? Well if your father was such a great man, then surely he wouldn’t have a damn cripple for a son!” Came the nasty reply that seemed to tip the scales of Ivar’s seemingly endless rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly that the sound of his teeth grinding could be heard, and Ivar clenched his fists so tightly that his nails drew blood from his palm. Freydis edged away, fearing she was in the way of his violent temper that so easily threatened to spill over. She curled the bearskin around her body in a false sense of comfort and Ivar whirled around on the bench, knocking Freydis from her seat as he did.

She yelped as her back colliding with the ground for a second time that day and Hvitserk immediately rose to his feet in her defence. Rather than turning on the person closest to him, Ivar hauled his legs over the bench and shuffled down to crawl along the ground. Powerful arms let him cross the distance quite easily whilst his chest heaved with his uncontrollable emotions.

The warriors merely mocked how he crawled with such lithe grace, like a dangerous predator making its way through the tall undergrowth. Hvitserk curled an arm under the winded girl’s arm and hoisted her back onto the bench, with Ubbe and Sigurd watching tensely. Ubbe then rose in turn as the warriors stood to face the young crippled prince.

“If you think we will fight are cripple, then you must be as mad as they say,” the leader of the small group spat insultingly before waving him off.

Ivar spat at his feet and snarled, “You won’t need to fight me, I will just kill you.” And, quicker than a coiled snake ready to strike, he yanked the ever-present knife from its loop in his belt and drove it into the man’s foot, causing him to howl in pain and more so as Ivar twisted the knife in the wound. The man attempted to lurch away, and Ivar let him by unsheathing the knife from his booted foot.

Freydis shivered at the sight of blood, feeling her limbs rush cold and the bearskin that cloaked her shoulders felt weightless. The Beserker side prowled beneath the surface of her calmness, as it often did when violence occurred. She knew the retaliation of the other men was imminent, and that it was likely a way for Ivar to goad her into going Beserk as well as to prove his own self-reliance. He was not going to wait for Freydis to defend him, as he had done the past and enjoyed the way the promise of her bearskin made them tremble in their boots. Rather his brutality and immediate reaction had shown that.

One of the warriors raised his shield above his head in a striking motion to use the shield itself as a blunt weapon, presumably on Ivar’s neck. The other Ragnarssons rose to their feet, inciting the remaining warriors to reveal what few weapons they held on their persons. 

It was a showdown of bravado that would only be resolved once their blood stopped boiling or everyone was dead, and Ivar’s pride would not allow the former. As the shield came hurtling down towards Ivar’s neck, he rolled away on his belly and slashed at the man’s Achilles tendon, causing him too to topple to the ground with an agonized scream. By now the small groups of slaves and women had retreated to the furthest corners of the Great Hall, leaving the remainder as the optimal space to engage in a bloody brawl.

The sickening crack of the wood splintering against the earth as the shield connecting with the earth jolted Freydis’ mind back to memories of England; of bones and metal clashing, hot blood splattering her face and the insurmountable calm followed by a disappearance of consciousness followed by carnage. She tried to resist the feeling of tranquility, but it swallowed her whole with little more than a mere whimper of disagreement on her behalf.

The man with the slashed tendon attempted to strike Ivar again and again, with the defendant only managing to avoid the strikes by a hair’s breadth. Ubbe leapt of the table with surprising agility, engaging one the warriors whilst Hvitserk followed in suit.

Freydis, however, rose unsteadily to her feet with glazed over eyes that saw little and understood even less. However her rage erupted in within a second she was on the man with the shield, pining him to the ground. He shouted in shock but quickly screamed as she inserted two thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes, burying them as deep as they would go. Blood welled around her thumbs as he flailed, but her immense strength born from the overwhelming adrenaline of a Beserker allowed her to keep him pinned.

His eyes bubbled and squelched, whilst his screams reverberated from his chest up through the legs she used to pin him to the ground. The man finally managed to break away a free hand and shove it in Freydis’ face in an attempt to break free, and she in turn jerked her face away whilst pushing her body weight into her thumbs, and thus into his eyes. 

Agonised screams filled the Great Hall as she buried her thumbs deeper into his eyes until nothing but blood filled pools remained in his eye sockets. It seemed the air had been snatched from his lungs as no screams followed, only the listless twitching of his limbs as he lost consciousness. Eventually the thick liquid welled over and streaked down from his eyes towards his eyes like faux tears.

Upon seeing her shift, Hvitserk and Ubbe immediately back away apprehensively, aware of the unpredictability of a Beserker.

Freydis’ breathing was labored and none dared move a muscle for fear of attracting her attention. The man below her would likely die from his wounds, or at the very least suffer in blindness for the remainder of it, a fate no others wished to share.

Bolstered by the mead coursing through their veins, the final two assailants mounted their final attacks. One seized Ivar with a knife to his throat while the other took advantage of Freydis’ stalemate and took her in a tight headlock from which she struggled to break from. His forearms clamped down hard on her throat and she reached behind her head to scratch furiously at his bald head, leaving streaks of vermillion wounds in her wake.

Ivar, however, went completely still at the sensation of cold steel at his throat and his mind raced with ideas of how to escape the predicament. His mind drew a blank for the longest moment until a shrill cry from his mother distantly crackled against his ears. She cried something along the lines of an order to release him, only for the man holding a feral Freydis to respond with some pitiful excuse that the Beserker would kill them the instant she was let go. And they were correct, she would have been on them in an instant if they even hesitated.

In his nervousness, the Viking with his knife to Ivar’s throat pricked the tender flesh of his neck. It was no more than a shaving cut, but it was enough for the Beserker to erupt once more.

She somehow swiveled in her captor’s headlock and looped her hands around the back of his neck like a gentle lover, only to sink her pearly teeth deep into the front of his throat. The man’s eyes bulged and he struggled to cry out as Freydis’ iron grip on his throat tightened, severing flesh from flesh and piercing his jugular. Unlike watching a wolf take down a young deer, the primal nature of the attack was simply horrifying. As the girl clamped down on his throat and jerked it away from the rest of his neck, the attacker was left to splutter and gargle on the blood that filled his mouth. 

Staring up at the ceiling with eyes beginning to glaze over, unable to feel the warmth from the hearth or from the blood staining his tunic, he settled back on his haunches, dead.

Only then did Freydis’ sense come back to her in the most horribly of ironic ways as she too knelt with her face to the rafters of the Great Hall. Something hot ran down the inside of her throat, blocking her airways and for a moment she choked, coughing out some meaty material from her mouth. On her hands and knees she spluttered out the remaining foreign substance, oblivious to the noise around her.

Ivar’s assailant shakily dropped his knife and crawled away from the cripple whom had he been pinning to the ground with his weapon. 

Eyes, many eyes stared in disbelief and unreserved horror at the spectacle. It was a blood bath, most of which was caused by the Beserker. The blood that stained her clothes and bearskin looked eerie enough to resemble one of their sacrifices, though the brutality of it was unnerving. Some of the more seasoned Vikings merely cringed back at the sight of gristle and sinew in the young girl’s mouth, whilst the women hurried from the Great Hall with much panic.

Freydis touched her mouth and looked to both men, one of whom was only barely breathing whilst the other remained in a kneeling position, staring empty-eyed at the ceiling. His throat was missing, literally torn from him and the blood continued to bubble down the front of him. The other man’s eyes had been gouged so deeply that nothing remained of them but a puddle of scarlet liquid.

The emptiness that was left over stung her deeply as the room was frozen with the intensity of the situation. Queen Aslaug found her muscles would barely move, until Ivar slowly crawled over to his companion and clapped her on the back. She barely flinched.

“You did well, Freydis!” He laughed, dispelling the atmosphere yet adding to its callousness in the way he joked. Ivar could feel his pulse rush through his ears like a waterfall of excitement, causing his fingers to tremble as he held the Beserkers shoulder tightly.

“Ivar, get away from her!” Aslaug hissed, barely able to step closer to her son to pull him from the obvious hazard. 

The young man’s broad smile evaporated as he turned his head to face his mother, but said nothing. Sharp blue eyes engulfed in a blurry anger gave away how much the situation excited him, and not just in the way that satiated his blood lust. Hot tingling blew over Ivar’s limbs and loins in waves, stirring him in a way he had never felt before, and he drew closer to Freydis’ neck. His breath fanned over her bloodied neck, but she felt nothing as he whispered small words of encouragement to her.

Ivar felt invigorated, and he wanted more.

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To answer the unspoken question YES their romantic relationship will improve in the coming chapters! But perhaps in a very strange way…

SUMMARY: so basically Ivar and Freydis are ice fishing, but he spoils it and they have a small moment. They go back to Kattegat and Freydis is minorly rejected, but then Ivar defends her from his mother which makes it up to her in her mind. But then they get into a fight with some drunks, started by Ivar (obviously), to which Freydis ends up very brutally killing to and sexually/emotionally exciting Ivar and terrifying everyone else.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t wish to promote the kind of relationship Ivar has with pretty much anyway, let alone Freydis. For the sake of the story this is how I have chosen to portray their relationship but it is in no way healthy or okay in real life. This is fiction and should not be taken as relationship advice. Don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour from ANYONE.


	8. Chapter 8

**NOTE**  
They are 16 at this point, sorry if I had been too vague in the last chapter ☺

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Freydis sunk deeper into the cramped wooden tub, letting the hot water soak into her chapped skin and limp hair. The steam rose in great waves against the coolness of the air around the tub to create a sauna-like atmosphere in the private bathouse and left a flush of red on her cheeks. She let out a low hum of pleasure as the water rose just above the bridge of her nose while dark hair splayed out through the bath like seaweed deep beneath the surface. 

Her mind felt blank and dreary as she tried to reach out into memories of what had occurred prior to a pair of stiff-limbed slaves stripping her of her clothes and all but dumping her in the tub. It was as if the thoughts were on the tip of her mind and just beyond the reach of her fingertips, yet so tangible. Freydis pinned it down to exhaustion as her limbs ached with a weight she hadn’t felt since the last time she went raiding with her father. Memories of the raids were clear, and of days spent wallowing in mud with the Saxons, each killing the other in an increasingly brutal manner. The older the recollections the easier they were to forget as the details became blurrier with age. However deep in the night they still seized her awake in a cold sweat and icy limbs.

Closing her dark eyes for a long moment, morsels of thoughts began to trickle into her mind; yelling, a knife and shield… Ivar was involved deeply somehow. Her chested swelled uncomfortably with a seed of worry and she slowly opened her eyes as droplets trickled from her eyelashes.

Tendrils of red snaked out from her body, diluted by the sheer volume of the tub yet still managing to dye the water an eerie hue of red. Her eyes danced over the mixing colours, leading back to her chest and mouth where it seemed to be emanating. Gingerly, the girl reached up to her lips, expecting an open wound she had missed and forgotten to keep dry. Rather, she pulled away a small piece of flesh with sinew and gore still attached, while her fingers seemed to be coated in the similar substance. Blood dripped from it, sending a ripple across the surface of the otherwise calm water.

Freydis rose up slightly out of the water in horror, releasing a shrill, mortified cry as she scrambled up the angled wall of the tub. The memories poured back in over the bodies, one with eyeless sockets and the other with blood spluttering from the blank space where his throat should have been. She continued to scream and push the sullied water away from her until a firm, calloused hand wrapped itself around her mouth.

Silenced, Freydis struggled against the iron-tight grip until a fluid voice dragged itself across her shoulder and into her ear, saying, “Be quiet, or Mother will be in here in a moment.”

She immediately recognised the ever-threatening voice and settled slightly, chest still heaving and pupils dilated with alarm. Steam and blood hid her naked body from view, though she still curled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Ivar slowly let go of her mouth and she sucked in a short breath through her nose. Even with the warmth of the steam and water his fanning breath tickled against her skin, causing the hair on the back of her neck to prickle.

Ivar hauled himself over to the side of the tub and lifted one arm over it so it dangled in the water. She drew away slightly as she felt the tip of his fingers graze against her upper thigh tentatively to feel her butter-soft skin. Blood still stained Freydis’ mouth and chest, though her breasts were hidden by her folded knees, which immediately drew his eyes to the area. The cleavage of them dipped into the water and he could imagine their shadowy shape just below the surface like a pair of ripe plums. And the cords of blood dripping down her body made the thought all the more irresistible.

He noticed the girl seemed startled with wide, doe like eyes watching him intently while her muscles clenched tightly. Even the gentle swan shape of her neck was enhanced by the red hue of blood.

Ivar flicked water in Freydis’ face, and she blinked it away before settling somewhat. She wasn’t entirely sure what she had expected him to do, though he seemed to be in a surprisingly playful mood. A light smile danced across his lips, yet by the way his pupils were wide enough to swallow the vivid blue of his eyes Freydis could tell he wasn’t wholly in the moment.

“I-Ivar, please,” Freydis whispered, barely able to summon the breath to speak any louder. His fingers had begun idly brushing against her thigh again, occasionally travelling across to her exposed hipbone.

His attention remained steadfast on the tiny rivers of blood that had all but dissipated into the bath water as he said, “I had forgotten what it was like to watch you go Beserk…”

The cripple’s words seemed to trickle off into the steam before he reached up with his soaked hand and took Freydis’ chin ever so gently between his thumb and forefinger, tipping it up slightly. It quivered in his light grip and he reveled in the widening of her panic streaked eyes. He then spread his palm across her cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip as he did so. Her teethed were still blemished by the stains of fresh blood.

“You were made for me by the gods, Freydis,” Ivar murmured in a low voice that seemed to reverberate through her chest, making her chest hum in tune. He snaked his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck, gripping a fistful of damp hair in the process. Freydis bit back a yelp of surprise at the sudden action but made no move to retaliate. “I knew… When we were children that you would help me. You will help me now, won’t you, Freydis?”

Freydis’ mouth was dry from the tension as she held Ivar’s wild stare. His dilated pupils unnerved her, as if he was still high off the previous butchering. The power was like an infectious disease; one Ivar had never been weaned onto on account of the belittling from quite literally everyone in his life. It was a terrible drug he had no resistance to and would happily immerse himself in if given the opportunity.

In spite of this, the answer rolled off her tongue easily. 

“Always, Ivar,” she responded in a tone that was surprisingly resolute for the normally timid girl. 

The firm grip he held on her hair loosened somewhat and Freydis leant forward slightly, pressing his forehead to her own so lightly that he doubted if they had even touched. Dark and vivid eyes met inches apart. Her heart thudded heavily in its cavity, threatening to overwhelm her at the intensity with which he stared back at her. 

Ivar had never been particularly open or emotive, and yet the plaintive way he had asked for affirmation of her loyalty stirred her heart in a way she had never felt before. He was stubborn, crass and cruel much of the time, and in spite of his temperament there was something so endearing about him that at times Freydis found herself staring as long as she could. 

A wicked charm rivaling that of Loki’s ensnared her heart and she found herself leaning forward slightly with a small tilt of her head. Her softened lips brushed against his chapped ones lightly and Freydis felt his breath seize up in his lungs. The pressure was slight and as gentle as the first snow.

She eventually drew back and rested against the edge of the tub as Ivar lazily moved his hand through the bath water. His mind reeled, unfamiliar with such affections. Cupping her hands, Freydis splashed the water on her face and rinsed the gore from her mouth. Ivar’s lips were still parted ever so slightly as his eyes hovered over the water that hid Freydis’ body and back up to her pink lips. Most of the blood had been scrubbed from her skin, as she wanted not even a single drop left to remind her. He had been a welcome distraction, to a degree although he had invaded her privacy, but the thoughts were returning once more. Freydis had caused a lot of pain and killed in very brutal ways, none of which settled easily on her soul.

Looking up to Ivar, she noted the splattering of blood on his own face and hairline, and reached out with her hand to clean it away. Ivar jerked back, avoiding her touch.

“Leave it,” he muttered into the relative darkness of the bathhouse. “I want them to see it. They will fear me.”

Freydis wasn’t entire sure who Ivar wanted to frighten, but nonetheless responded, saying, “They do fear you, Ivar.”

His brow furrowed and he settled his forearms atop the rim of the bathtub, resting his chin on them. “No, they fear you because they have seen what you can do to them if they anger you,” Ivar grunted, causing Freydis to flinch back at his bluntness. She was not proud of the way she was, not in the slightest. “But they have not seen what I can do yet. And I promise you, Freydis, I will make them fear me, even if I have to rip the lungs from their very chests.”

The darkness playing on the shadows of Ivar’s face only enhanced the intensity of his gaze, and Freydis’ heart beat faster at the promising glean in his eyes. It melted back eventually and he frowned once more before splashing water on her face. Dripping from her chin and nose, she tried to swipe the water from her eyes.

“Don’t look so frightened,” he crowed. “It’s not a good look for a Beserker.”

“You should have been the one born a Beserker,” Freydis commented and mimicked Ivar’s position by leaning on her forearms. “You are a far better Viking than I.”

Ivar cracked a small smirk but smothered it by burying his face in his forearms. The compliment was endearing and natural, unlike the pitying ones he received from his mother. It was a welcome relief that caused alleviated some of the constant tension between the pair. Freydis was aware that while Ivar enjoyed her company, he continued to resent her to a degree for her inability to utilise her gift as he would have. Nevertheless he rarely, if ever, said anything of it. 

The cold had begun to seep into the previously scalding water, and Freydis’ limbs ached to move from their folded position. She reached over the other side of the tub and felt around briefly for the long sheet of linen used as a towel and brought it up to the bath’s rim. 

“It is growing colder, and I should dress before I freeze,” Freydis mumbled, watching Ivar carefully to see if he would take the hint to give her some privacy. Unfortunately he did not. “Please, Ivar, some privacy would be appreciated.”

Ivar grunted in response, and pulled his arm from the cooling water. His tunic sleeve was soaked and water dripped from the corners as he rolled himself onto his stomach. Although he ached to press his lips against hers as the girl had done not a few minutes ago, the apprehension of vulnerability on his behalf was overwhelming. Freydis’ kiss had already summoned feelings that caused his chest to tighten in an uncomfortable way he had never experienced before and bred a heat in his face and chest.

Her lovely dark eyes were clearer than before as she daringly leaned in for a light kiss on his cheek that was equally as gentle as the first. Soft lips brushed against Ivar’s skin momentarily and lingered there for a number of seconds. 

Freydis eventually drew away, a red blush dusting her face as she tried to choke out an explanation. “Ivar, I-”

“M-Mistress, it has fallen quite cold. Shall I e-empty the bath?” The wooden door dividing the bathhouse from the private quarts of Ivar’s family muffled the voice of one of the terrified slaves who had previously tended to Freydis. 

The girl all but recoiled and strangled out the rest of her sentence that was all but inaudible to Ivar. It seemed important by her reaction, but the rushing in his ears from her obvious display of affection had largely blocked it out. In being engaged to a cripple he was sure Freydis would have felt some form of resentment to him, or at least an unwillingness for their relationship to evolve romantically.

Similarly he had expected them to continue on amiably in whatever companionable relationship they seemed to have. The warmth and affection it evolved in him would, unfortunately, manifest itself in an untraditional manner that was detrimental to both him and his future lover.

Ivar prefered domination and control to the sappy relationships of lovers he had seen littered throughout Kattegat. The lack of authority in any relationship placed him at a disadvantage and, as the saying goes, all is fair in love and war. She stirred emotions that gave her a power over him, but he would not allow it.

Nothing, not even the comfortable familiarity of his only companion, would weaken him. For he was Ivar the Boneless, the man who would lead the future of the Vikings…

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I literally wrote this chapter like 3 times, it was insane. I’m not too happy with the ending, but I really couldn’t figure out how to wrap it up in a truly Ivar fashion.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry for being so late with updates, university just started back up so I am flat chat with that!

**WARNING**  
Some sexual intercourse in a dream and aggression on Ivar’s part. Summary at the end!

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Again, for the fifth time that month, Ivar found himself in the throws of a dream which had ensnared both his slumbering and conscious mind. It felt strange to stare down upon himself unclothed and lying between the slender legs of his companion, grinding his hips in a slow yet deliberate manner that elicited a groan of ecstatic pleasure from his lips. The girl beneath him would mewl or whimper with each painful thrust as one of Ivar’s hands had wound itself tightly around her swan-like throat, whilst the other was placed above her head to steady himself.

Freydis’ face was contorted in a mixture of pleasure and pain as her teeth sunk into her bottom lip in an attempt to silence the cries. He eventually released her throat to massage her bare breasts, leaving vivid red fingermarks on the soft flesh as he began to grip much too hard. Freydis squirmed beneath his hips and whined in pain, speaking incoherent words that practically dripped with submissive begging.

It was beyond pleasurable not only to feel the moist tightness of her inner walls stimulating him, but also to have the feared Beserker beg while beneath him. The power was his both physically and emotionally, and the combination brought him to such heightened levels of desire that when the time came for him to spill his seed in her, he was instead jolted awake and upright by the same vague feeling of pressure around where his crotch rubbed against the fabric of his pants.

Ivar knew of the dreams from his brothers, though before the recent bout of dreams he had never experienced one. As he blinked sleep from his eyes, the lingering images of domination caused the same hot tingling that had occurred nearly a month before at Freydis’ last outburst.

The cripple flopped back onto his bed and starred at the wooden ceiling beams, waiting for the erratic beating of his heart to settle. Freydis’ soft and calm personality contradicted his own so greatly that the thought of even attempting to initiate such activities was too outlandish for Ivar to even consider. He could imagine the doe-like expression in her eyes and polite refusal that would likely crush his ego in the dust without a second thought. Or perhaps, instead, she would concede to his wishes to fuck her with eagerly spread legs.

He draped a loose hand over his crotch, noting how it was still only partially hard, if that and cursed his brittle legs. They were the source of his belittlement and harassment, while the pain often made him wish they had been sliced off at birth. Then, at least, people would not stare at the twisted way his legs molded together as if they were one limb due to them being bound together for many years.

Gentle cries of early winter winds sifted through the wood to Ivar’s sensitive ears. His brother’s slept near silently, undisturbed by his sudden awakening while the sun had not yet risen. 

He threw off the heavy animal skins and pulled his legs over the edge of the bed, easing himself to the ground as quietly as he could manage. Ivar crawled from his room to the door of the cramped free servant’s quarters and opened it a crack. A few woman stirred, but only one woke though he sent a deathly glare dripping with the order to remain silent. She did as she was wordlessly commanded as Ivar wriggled in past the door to the curled up figure shivering beneath a thin goatskin. Admittedly the sum fifteen women sharing the communal sleeping quarters heated the air to some degree, the icy floor still caused Ivar’s fingers to sting and go numb.

It was particularly obvious when he placed a leather-bound hand on the dark-haired girl’s shoulder, feeling the cold practically seep out of her thin tunic. The bearskin was wrapped tightly around her body though it seemed it did little to help stave off the winter chill. 

Freydis jerked away from his touch with a startled yet bleary-eyed look, tangles of long locks framing her gentle face. “I-Ivar?” She whispered into the dark as she struggled to make out the exact features of the face that stared intently at her.

Ivar hushed her but gestured for her to follow as he crawled from the room on his belly. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, moved out from underneath the thin goatskin and pulled the bear pelt tight around her body. The coolness of the air was ruthless against Freydis legs and chest as it easily passed through her thin clothes. Unlike the Ragnarssons, warm pelts and sealskins were a luxury she could never afford, regardless of the number of raids she ventured on.

The girl followed Ivar from the Great Hall, over the pebbled ground at the shore and onto the docks, wincing at how the cold emanating from the stones blistered her feet. If Ivar felt the temperature as much as Freydis, he did not let on, instead choosing to remain silence until they reached the edge of the furthest pier. He allowed his limp legs to dangle over the side, where the sole of his boots on just touched the surface of the calm water. A gentle breeze tugged at the furled sails causing the ships to bob gracefully in the harbour.

While the sun had not yet risen, its promising rays still peaked over the watery horizon in long tendrils of light. Freydis seated herself beside him, her mind drawn back to when they used to spend hours watching the boats and imagining all the wonderful places they had been and what wares they would bring back after every trip abroad. She would tell him stories of England and Wales, of the rolling hills of greenery that contrasted the tussocky landscape of Norway in every way. However, unlike his father, Ivar’s mind was disinterested with the rationality of admiring a landscape for its practicality and arability. Rather he was focused on its material wealth and thoughts of conquest, more than happy to daydream of raiding the soft people of England.

The lulling wind chapped her lips and pulled gently at her dark hair as they sat in silence. Unlike the past, it was slightly strained with neither entirely sure what to say. Ivar was still consumed by images of his lucid dream while Freydis had sensed the change in their relationship from the day she had lost control. It was as though they had to redefine their bond and accept that they could no longer exist as merely betrothed in title only.

Their shared kiss had changed much between them, and some part of Freydis regretted acting so rashly.

Ivar was the first to break the silence. “It is strange between us now,” he said simply, eyes never straying from the magnificent long boats bobbing on the water. Every dyed sail, carved figure hard and graceful curve of wood was so appetizing to the eye that it was understandable why he wanted to stare.

He finally turned his attentions to Freydis after she said nothing for a long while to catch her staring directly at him. Freydis was no stunning beauty who caught the eye of every man like his mother, but she was easy on the eyes. Much like the sight of a warm fire after a blistering winter or a pitcher of water in the middle of the salt seas. Her features were soft and touched with a kindness that was rare in Kattegat. 

Ivar often found her disabling in her calm gentleness, but was quick to grow immune from it when he caught himself letting his guard down.

Freydis tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear before leaning back on her palms. Her mouth was pulled into a tight, straight line as she gazed back at the water. As much as she hated to admit it, Ivar was right: the relationship was strained.

“It does not have to be, Ivar,” Freydis replied barely above a whisper. 

“No, because we are betrothed it is not strange for us to do the things that lovers do,” Ivar said, more to himself than to Freydis. She held her breath in the long pause before he continued. “My brothers say that it is strange we have not been together yet; they have all lain with many women before.”

“Slaves and girls hardly count,” she replied as she fiddled with the fraying edge of her tunic. “And when did you start caring about what your brothers thought?”

“I do not,” Ivar hissed with a flash of annoyance overtaking his features. 

Her heart hammered inside her chest at the thought of Ivar between her legs. For she had heard of the pains of intercourse and in particular the dangers of pregnancy, which Aslaug had a made a point to stress that no pregnancy was to occur before they were wed. She found this strange, as often in the Viking culture pregnancy proceeded marriage.

Ivar said nothing for a long while, merely gazing out over the bay before eventually locking eyes with his fiancée. He opened his mouth as if to speak but quickly shut it. His brow hug heavily over his eyes and the Viking’s mind was racing with an innumerable amount of thoughts.

He raised a leather-clad hand to the lower part of her jaw and pulled her in for a clumsy kiss that landed on her upper lip before Ivar corrected himself. Freydis tentatively parted her lips to accept the kiss, leaning into it with an eagerness that felt as if it were the most natural thing in the world, in spite of her hammering heart. With muscles clenched from the prevailing fear of rejection, Ivar curled an arm around her waist and jerked her closer on the pier.

A noise of surprise escaped Freydis’ lips and she raised her hands to Ivar’s chest to steady herself, gripping his leather vest tightly. He held her face between his hands, growing increasingly aggressive in his assault on her bruising lips. Fingers wound themselves at the roots of Freydis’ hair once again while the arm still curled around her waist hoisted the girl onto his lap with a startled squeal. Eager hands explored ever inch of the body made to straddle his hips, sliding up and down her back and skimming just below her breast.

Heat rose up the girl’s neck and chest at the hungry roaming of Ivar’s hands, and she shifted uncomfortably at the proximity of their hips though his firm grip on her hair prevented her from slipping away. Ivar moaned into her as his palm cupped her ass whilst pulling her down on his crotch. The hardening bulge beneath his pants brushed against her and the sudden urge to recoil became irresistible.

She straightened upwards on her knees, breaking Ivar’s oral assault. With wide eyes and slack jaw, Freydis struggled to contain the trembling of her jaw at the wild and bleary look on his face.

“Ivar, please… slow down,” she said while gazing down at him. His chest heaved from the lust coursing through his veins; she was not a submissive as in his dreams. 

Flaring nostrils and the way he sullenly avoided her gaze, though refused to release his hold on her body, betrayed his unwillingness to comply. And yet Ivar knew he would need to take a different approach to have her under him willingly. If slow was what she wanted, then he could compromise. Freydis was a weak-willed girl and so it would not take much to change her mind.

With a hand still deeply rooted in her hair, Ivar pulled Freydis back down to his lips in a gentler fashion than before, gradually applying pressure until the girl coyly reciprocated the gesture. Their lips moved in tandem with one another until they had reached a steady and manageable rhythm that had Freydis finally settling into his lap. At first Ivar did not push her hips upon his crotch but instead the light pressure of her weight stimulate him whilst she straddled him.

Having steadied herself over his twisted legs, which felt almost unsteady beneath her, Freydis brought her hands up to the sides of his jaw. It was defined and the muscles tensed beneath her gentle touch. Callouses and scars littered her hands, giving Freydis an unlady-like feel that contrasted that of Ivar’s mother. It was not unpleasant, though the warmth the seeped into his skin was tantalizing. He realised that her entire body radiated a gentle balminess the soothed the aching in his joints as she curled her arms around his neck to bring him closer.

The sun was rising over the edge of the water, revealing the segregated sheets of ice that littered the bay, indicating that winter was well and truly on its way. Regardless of the warmth of its rays and the heat from the body atop him, the undeniable ache caused by the cold had returned, whether from Freydis weight or the extended time in the cold he could no tell. All that mattered was that it hurt.

Hurriedly he all but thrust Freydis the side with a grunt of pain. The girl in question yelped as her shoulder collided with the sturdy wooden pier, sending a bolt of hot pain through the entire region. She scrambled back up onto her knees and faced Ivar, only to find him already crawling away from her without so much as a ‘goodbye’. The sting of rejection once again lodged itself in her throat and tickled at the corner of her eyes.

“Ivar, where are you-?” She began in a wavering tone, only to be swiftly cut off by his gruff and scathing reply.

“Back to the Great Hall, I have had enough so do no bother me anymore, woman,” Ivar barked back, not bothering to spare her a glance over his shoulder. Freydis gawped at the manner in which she had been discarded so quickly, but eventually stood on shaky legs. Her face was flushed bright red with humiliation as she watched Ivar’s retreating figure slip into the Great Hall, likely to the safe confines of his room. 

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Freydis mulled around the port for a long while before daring to venture back into the Great Hall. The mortification of being manhandled then carelessly tossed aside like an old toy was still ripe in her mind and plagued her every thought. In her pacing of the bustling port Freydis had knocked shoulders with a number of passerby’s, often eliciting an aggressive reprimanding that was quickly smothered by the sight of the infamous bearskin she wore. The bearskin was a testament to her Beserker nature, and in that instance she was grateful for the apprehension it bred.

When she eventually slipped through the illustrious doors of the Great Hall, hoping to slide through the usual morning traffic unnoticed, to her dismay Hvitserk was at her side in an instant. However an oddly serious one that immediately set Freydis on edge replaced his usual semi-flirtatious attitude. 

A male voice could be heard from the back of the hall followed by the clear sound of shattering pottery, alerting Freydis to the situation before Hvitserk could even open his mouth.

“Ivar his having another one of his tantrums,” Hvitserk began with crossed arms. “He has started calling for you, so it’d be best to see what he once before he tears Kattegat apart.”

Freydis thanked him and baulked at the sound of enraged yelling followed by a number of servants rushing from the room. Aslaug, too, emerged from the back of the Great Hall clutching her head from the frustration of it all. Since Harbard, Ivar had rarely suffered in such ways and the Queen had forgotten what an emotional toll it took on her. And now he called for the peasant farmer rather than his own mother.

Aslaug gestured to Freydis with a sharp flick of her wrist and the girl was by her side within a moment. “I do not know why he asks for you, but Ivar will not let me comfort him. Do no expect to soothe him, just weather his pains,” the Queen of Kattegat explained in a low voice that betrayed her annoyance at the situation. Aslaug had the irrefutable ability to set a chill in Freydis’ bones with her clipped tone and narrowed eyes, something the woman seemed to lord of the Beserker as often as she could.

It seemed to her that Aslaug had only grow more bitter in her own demure way that so often had her questioning if she was really being intimidated, or if it was merely the figment of her wild imagination. As a child her mother often noted, without praise or scorn, that her mind was the only cause for stress in her life. Since then and as she had grown, Freydis came to learn that was largely untrue as they suffered through famines and poverty, though even as a young girl she had been terribly anxious. 

And the gnarling worry in the pit of her stomach was a testament to how to nervous personality had not shifted, although she managed to hide it a little better than in her youth.

The Queen moved off to her bed, presumably to rest after the monstrous headache her youngest son had caused, one that would soon become Freydis’. She gingerly padded over to the door to Ivar’s private room, heart thundering like a mighty storm. Groans and the shifting of furs could be heard through the heavy oak door, indicating that Ivar had hopefully calmed somewhat since before.

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, catching a pair of murky blue eyes belonging to Hvitserk watching her intently in a hawk-like fashion. Hvitserk’s mouth was drawn into a tight line and a hand rested lightly on the axe at his hip. While she had never known him to stand up for much, it was comforting to know at least one soul cared whether or not she came out unscathed.

Hvitserk managed a grim nod before Freydis pushed lightly on the door, testing the waters before she dove into the fray. Immediately a miscellaneous clay item was hurled at the door and Freydis jerked it shut before it could strike her.

“Go away, Mother!” His voice bellowed in a low, defensive snarl. 

“I-Ivar, it’s me, Freydis,” the girl stammered, back pressed against the door. Hvitserk had taken a step forward to her defence, though froze mid motion as she quickly shook her head. Now was not the time for anybody to become defensive, it would only antagonize Ivar further.

A brief moment passed before he crowed back, “I have been calling for you for more than an hour, you stupid peasant.”

Even from the other side of the wall his scathing attitude was palpable, and Freydis winced back at the insult. He hadn’t called her that name in many years and it ached bitterly to hear it so soon after they had shared such an intimate moment. Freydis did not bother to rebuke him, though she rarely did whenever he hurled half-hearted names at her. This one was spoken with nastiness rather than teasing in intent, however.

She slid into the dimly lit room, her eyes taking a few moments to adjust before she could make out the slumped figure of Ivar in his bed. He had taken to leaning against the wall, furs covering his twisted legs. A foul expression rested in his face while his upper lip curled in distaste.

“Where have you been?” Ivar barked, and Freydis noticed how he clutched his upper thighs with such intensity she feared his legs might bruise.

Freydis clutched the fabric of her trousers between her thumb and forefinger, saying, “At the port. I’m sorry I did not come earlier.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed and almost cut her off. “Just come and massage my legs. Mother would not stop hounding me with her questions and lectures, so you will do it instead.” Ivar was forced to pause mid-sentence to let out a long, controlled breath to handle to pain.

Resisting the urge to inquire why he had asked in the first place, Freydis bit her tongue and approached Ivar’s bedside. While he had asked, or rather ordered, Freydis to massage his legs in the past the fear of failure still hung like a foreboding shadow in the back of her mind. Grinding the wrong knot would have Ivar throwing whatever was within arms’ reach of him or lashing out, whilst a flicker of discomfort on her face would earned her a scathing insult that strung deeper than any physical wound. 

All-in-all Freydis was aware she was too sensitive towards Ivar’s tempers.

He left the fur blankets covering his legs and set his gaze on the ordinary thatched roof, a grim look of ache present on his handsome face. Freydis dipped her hands in the warm pitcher set beside his bed as Aslaug always did before beginning.

Ivar shook his head and grunted, “Don’t bother, your hands are always warm.”

A small smile graced her lips at the thought of him noticing and remembering such a small detail, and she slid her hands beneath the furs to his legs. As usual Ivar’s expression distorted and twisted up in discomfort at the unfamiliar sensation of human contact with his legs. In spite of them being covered, it was still obvious to Freydis that the muscles of his upper thigh and calves were underdeveloped, whilst the bones were so bent and gnarled that it would have complete agony during periods of growth and infancy. His legs were bowed and skinny feet pointed inwards, all of which she worked at with deft hands.

Each knot and twisted muscle was carefully worked, with Freydis needing to overlook the groans of pain from Ivar in order to dull the ache. Eventually Ivar settled back against the wall with an exhausted sigh. She continued with the light massaging that released the tension accumulated from the admittedly rough-handed grinding, attention firmly rooted in the moving figures of her hands beneath the furs.

Staring only aggravated Ivar and, in such a vulnerable state, he was more likely to lash out if wandering eyes lingered on any spot for too long.

“Shall I keep going, Ivar?” Freydis asked, hands rested beside each other on his crippled legs. The skin was smooth though littered with raised scars from having to crawl across the ground. Her short nails, worn down by frequent use, grazed lightly against his flesh causing goosebumps to rise up at the sensation. He let out a contented sigh that was somewhat strangled by the dull throbbing of his muscles.

Ivar shook his head with closed eyes, saying, “Just… Do that. It feels pleasant.” 

Though his voice barely rose above a mumble, she could sense the hum of appreciation in his throat. Rarely did he ever let her touch him in such a way and the intimacy was far more endearing than any kisses or unspoken words of affection could achieve. He had let his guard down and entrusted her with his care, to a degree. 

The walls that had once separated Ivar from every living soul were slowly being breached.

His slack body and drawn expression betrayed Ivar’s exhaustion and the girl found herself staring at his long, dark lashes and strong brow. There was something regal in his appearance, no matter the way his jaw clench in rage or when his head lulled to the side from fatigue. Even the height of his cheekbones casting clean shadows across his skin set a fire in her chest that caused the beating of Freydis’ heart to accelerate. 

Ivar could be charming and quick-witted, but also cruel and scathing, much like a child. Regardless Freydis felt the internal tug towards him for whatever reason unbeknownst to her. The heart could be fickle and just as dithering as Ivar himself, and Freydis’ was certainly no exception. Freydis felt the whisper of those three words on her lips yet the apprehension was too overwhelming and forced the words into the pit of her stomach.

No, the time was not right and the foreboding thoughts that knotted themselves in her gut were prevailing. In time, perhaps she would tell him. 

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Summary: Ivar has an inappropriate dream about Freydis and so wakes her up to sneak out of the Great Hall onto the pier, where they talk about how their relationship is counter-viking culture because they haven’t done the sex yet. Eventually they end up making out but Ivar’s shoves her away as her straddling makes his legs ache, he throws a fit, but she massages his legs and they have a nice moment where Freydis wants to confess but wimps out ☺


	10. Chapter 10

**NOTE**  
You can find some information about Beserkers and where I got the inspiration for Freydis’ character under the ‘Bear Warriors’ sub heading of:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berserker#Berserkers_-_bear_warriors

 

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Contrasting the stale and cold air, Freydis’ hands were warm upon Ivar’s legs, which suffered greatly during the winter from the lack of circulation. He craved the contact on every inch of his skin, feeling a contented groan escape his lips. Freydis did not seem to hesitate at the sound, and he wondered if she had heard at all.

Ivar then winced as she worked a stubborn knot with the heel of her palm. With semi-closed eyelids he watched her as she intently worked at his twisted legs with an unreadable expression. It was neither disgusted nor repugnant at her having to massage his cripple legs, though he wasn’t quite sure what he had expected in the first place. Perhaps he only wanted an excuse to take his frustrations out on the girl without having to stomach the inkling of guilt that followed. Ivar couldn’t be quite sure of his own feelings but the ache in his legs finally overshadowed it all.

Her hands occasionally strayed up his thigh to massage the stringy muscles there but often retreated before he could hum at the pleasure of such dexterous hands working the sensitive flesh. Ivar found himself wishing she would just work his crotch and wrap her hands around his-

A guttural groan escaped Ivar’s throat as a bolt of crisp pain radiated from a joint Freydis had kneaded slightly to hard, but he quickly settled against the wall with a contented sigh. Following the pain was only the dullest of aches, which he could bare.

With large doe eyes staring up at him from his bedside, Freydis asked, “Shall I keep going, Ivar?” The girl’s short nails began lightly grazing against his skin in an affectionate manner that caused his hair to stand on end. His lower jaw struggled not to tremble at the weightlessness of her caresses.

Her voice was soft and lulling in the silence, so gentle that all annoyance at her kneading that last knot was all but forgotten. Freydis’ head tilted slightly to the send, causing a waterfall of dark locks to fall upon the furs while Ivar let his eyelids stoop closed. 

He shook his head in response. “Just… Do that. It feels pleasant.” While it wasn’t the entire truth, as Ivar himself found the affection quite arousing in a sense, it was enough for Freydis continue without hesitation.

Lying against the wall with the soft strokes of a woman, Ivar struggled to stay awake. His earlier pains had exhausted him and Freydis seemed to sap his worries directly from his body.

Ivar cracked open his eyes to catch a glimpse of Freydis’ impossibly dark eyes staring at him intently, mouth slightly ajar as if to say something. He noticed briefly that her normally pink lips were littered with spotting bruises from his earlier advances. They were raw and red from the aggressive way he had pressed his own lips to hers.

Oh how he craved the feeling of closeness once more, to feel her body beneath his and to have those hands running through his hair. Ivar knew he could take it slow, though he doubted his self-restraint to maintain a slow pace.

However the exhaustion caused by his pained legs felt like lead weights on his limbs, and he was sinking deeper into sleep with every stroke of her dexterous fingers. Reaching beneath the furs, he took Freydis’ hand in his own and pulled up to his head, lacing her slim fingers with his hair. Freydis caught on to his intentions fairly quickly and so continued her rhythmic massaging and light scratching of his scalp.

A sound of pleasure vibrated from his chest, causing her own chest to swell with joy at how the corner of his mouth upturned slightly. Rarely did he ever express true happiness that was not born out of cruelty or from teasing, so this glimmer of bliss only highlighted the handsomeness of his face.

Once his breathing slowed and muscles visibly slackened, Freydis detracted her hand from his hair and rose to her feet. Her knees protested moving from the position they had rested in for close to an hour, and the girl shook the ache from them as she slipped through the doorway.

Freydis guessed that he would not wake for a few hours, perhaps even until the next day considering how quickly he had fallen asleep. She eased the door shut, wincing as it creaked on its old hinges until it was finally secure. 

The girl turned from the door and padded away from the room, only to find a tall figure rise from their spot near the main pillar of the private quarters. Hvitserk had remained nearby to the door for close to an hour, diligently keeping watch for any cries of pain or terror that he assumed would follow after his mother had ordered the poor girl into the room.

There was a moment where his chest seemed to lurch as Freydis tried to enter the room but jolted away as his youngest brother hurled pottery at her. Her inky eyes had grown to the size of saucers, fingers curled into tight balls and lungs heaving from the adrenaline of nearly being sliced up by a broken vase. 

Yet she had shaken her head at him and steeled herself to enter once more. She was a brave girl, as few would dare face Ivar during one of his violent tantrums, even their mother was apprehensive of his outbursts.

From his position not far from the doorway, the muffled moans and inaudible conversing sifted through to Hvitserk’s ears. But no screams, and yet he could not peel his eyes from the door nor move his hand from the axe at his hip. Thankfully he had not cause to use it and visibly relaxed at the sight of Freydis sliding ever so carefully through the door unscathed.

He had risen from his leaned position and the Beserker approached, though the spotting bruises on her lips instantly drew his eyes to the dark swelling.

“You did not have to wait for me, Hvitserk,” Freydis commented in a low but sweet voice, a shy smile and ducked head betraying how flattering she found it. “Ivar was not going to hurt me.”

Hvitserk leaned in a little closer to her and replied, “Do not think so well of my little brother.” Freydis scrunched up her nose though said nothing in response, so Hvitserk straightened up and gestured out to the Great Hall. “But I thought we might enjoy a midday meal together.”

“Ivar might need me-” Freydis began uncertainly, fiddling with her fingers.

“Ivar will be fine, you are not his nurse maid or servant.”

Freydis puffed out her cheeks at the insinuation and huffed, “I am not trying to be.”

The Ragnarsson quirked an eyebrow and, with a boyish grin plastered on his face, curled an arm around her shoulders. Unlike the servants and court ladies of Kattegat there was a solidness to the Beserker’s shoulders that felt defined and rough rather than dainty and lady-like. It was not unattractive; rather Hvitserk could not help but admire the lithe strength of the figure beneath her tunic.

He guided her to one of the many tables littering the Great Hall and pressed on Freydis’ shoulders until she resignedly seated herself on the bench. The waves of warmth that emanated from every sputter of the fire nearby thawed her limbs, which she had not realised had grown so cold. 

“I am sure that I can smell a roast pig somewhere,” Hvitserk mumbled, looking around the dim room. As soon as he mentioned ‘roast pig’ Freydis had to admit the irresistible scent of cooked meat reached her as well. She could practically feel herself salivating. 

Hvitserk turned on his heel to search of the source of the scent, leaving Freydis to sit and warm herself by the fire. She looked down at her hands, noting that Ivar was indeed right: they were still warm, even if the rest of her body was not. Freydis leant back in the bench and rested against the table before propping her legs up on the stones surrounding the hearth fire. Heat finally seeped through the tough leather of her boots and warmed her icy feet, and a small sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she closed her eyes.

Only a few moments later a small, accented voice interrupted her basking. “Excuse me, Master,” the voice was delicate and struggled slightly on the complicated Norse words. Freydis opened her eyes and turned her shoulders slightly to the direction of the noise.

Large eyes, paler than any shade blue she had seen stared at her, lips drawn down into a worried expression as she clutched a jug of what smelt like warm mead close to her chest. Two braids running along the side of her head adorned her flaxen hair and she wore a plain servant’s dress that highlighted the tanned glow of her skin, unlike the grey hues of most Vikings. Freydis contained her staring at the slave, though noted she was quite the beauty, and young too; perhaps only a year older than herself.

“Would you like some warm mead?” The slave asked, hands trembling slightly. Freydis glanced behind the girl to see some of the older servants watching in a crow-like fashion, as if waiting for the young slave to be savaged. Her mouth twisted into a firm line at the sight and the old crones scurried off.

Freydis turned her attentions back to the slave girl, saying, “I would not mind some.” She reached across the table to a pair of unattended cups and bought them closer. “To the brim.”

The slave girl nodded and began to pour the mead unsteadily, steam rising from the slowly filling cups as she did. Her expression was drawn into one of extreme concentration that flickered to Freydis’ as the Beserker watched her carefully. Once she had finished, the slave winced at the rivulets of mead she had spilt upon the table.

“You have not been a slave long?” Freydis guessed, taking a small sip of the mead. It was smooth and the heat spread throughout her body as it ran down her throat.

The slave shook her head. “I was only bought by Queen Aslaug a week ago.”

“And you are Frankish?” Freydis’ words elicited a small smile that practically lit up the girls face. Her eyes went wide and mouth parted thinking of what was likely her homeland.

“Yes, I am,” she replied. “Have you visited Frankia?”

“I have raided there before, with my father,” the Beserker said gently, regretting how the poor girl’s face fell. It seemed in her excitement she had forgotten who it was she spoke with. “It is a beautiful place, you have many lovely flowers and birds that we do not.”

“I’m surprised you noticed, I always thought Vikings were more interested in raping and pillaging,” she said quietly, and suddenly Freydis’ heart ached for the girl as her voice cracked. Clearly there were some painful memories behind her arrival in Kattegat, ones that would likely linger with her for the remainder of her life.

Freydis smiled grimly at the slave. “You are not wrong on that. Most Vikings do not care for the beauty of the land, or the people.”

“And you do?” She asked almost suspiciously, careful to keep the inkling of spite from her words.

Freydis twisted in her seat to face the girl who had been behind her, and leaned her forearms on the table. There was a gentleness to her face that the slave girl could not put her finger on, like the softness of the flickering light produced by the fire dancing off her dark eyes. Freydis tilted her head slightly and took another sip of mead. The slave’s attention was caught by the unearthly glass eyes of Freydis’ bearskin that seemed to stare her down with a ferocious intensity.

“I care more than most,” was all she said before quickly changing the subject. “What is your name?”

She hesitated slightly before replying, as if afraid someone might overhear. “Margrethe, Master.”

“You need not call me ‘Master’, my name is Freydis Gudmundsdottir.”

“I know who you are, the servants talk about you often,” Margrethe replied before a panicked look flashed across her face, having realised what she had just said. Freydis’ dark brows rose up and she leant back from the table slightly in surprise. Rather than offended, she was curious.

“And what do they say?” Freydis queried, though the girl had all but sealed her lips. “Tell me, Margrethe. I will not be mad.”

Once again the slave hesitated before replying. “They say you are a Beserker…” she mumbled and Freydis nodded her head knowingly. “And that you killed two men with your bare hands.”

Freydis fought the urge to grimace at the memories and a bitter smile touched her lips. “It is true, though it is their fault. You must know, they threatened my own life and the life of my betrothed,” Freydis said in a soft voice so as not to frighten Margrethe, though the girl did not recoil in fear. “Would you not defend yourself if that happened to you?”

“I would be too frightened,” Margrethe replied truthfully, watching how the Beserker’s serious face morphed into one of surprise. Perhaps she had expected a far different reaction than honesty.

Freydis opened her mouth to say something, but the words seemed choked in her throat so she closed it again. The slave girl did not seem quite so terrified as she had expected, though perhaps it was because of her naturally good demeanour in comparison to most other Vikings she had met. Rather, in contrast to them, Freydis was positively delightful.

“Sit, Margrethe,” she said whilst patting the seat beside her. “Have a rest.”

The girl’s sky blue eyes glanced around the room cautiously, scanning for watchful eyes that were ready to trip her up. She chewed on her bottom lip and tensed at the sight of the tall and armed Hvitserk approaching with two wooden plates laden with roast meat.

“Ah we have mead also, you can go now, slave,” Hvitserk said without so much as glancing at Margrethe. The girl gawped but quickly moved away.

“Wait no, Margre-” Freydis called, though the girl had quickly moved out of hearing range. She turned her attentions to Hvitserk who had sat himself beside her, a little too closely. As he settled, his knee brushed against hers and their forearms nearly touched. “I was speaking to her.”

Hvitserk glanced at her with a mouth full of roast pork and said, “She is just a slave, do not worry.”

Freydis lowered her eyes to the meat and began to slowly pick at it with her slim yet calloused fingers. There was not much point arguing as it was clear Hvitserk viewed slaves as they were treated: as non-human. Alas that was the view of most Vikings, and it was something Freydis could not change.

Lost deep in thought, Hvitserk’s voice finally wrenched her from them. “Do those bruises hurt?”

“Hmm?” She questioned wordlessly, unsure of what bruises Hvitserk spoke of.

“On your lips,” replied Hvitserk with an accompanying gesture. She touched them gently with a small ‘oh’. “Did Ivar do that to you?”

Freydis avoided his eyes as she said, “They do not hurt much.”

“Little brother has no idea how to treat women,” Hvitserk said to her.

“He treats me well,” she grunted curtly though in unconvincing manner. It would have been more correct to say ‘he can treat me well’, and Freydis herself knew that. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

“Ivar is too immature to love any but himself,” Hvitserk said lowly. “I could treat you better than he can.” The unspoken words ‘if you would only let me’ were left to hang in the air around them.

Freydis founds his statement hard to swallow and almost refused to believe it, but it had lodged its place in the back of her mind. On some level she knew this could be true, but still held out hope he could change. And yet she had never made the effort to make him change.

His eyes trailed over the way her long eyelashes shadowed her gaze from him, and Freydis stared resignedly at the cup in her hands. The mead was growing cold and his words had sent a deathly chill down her spine. Hvitserk leant towards her, brushing his lips against her cheek in a gentle kiss. He saw Freydis’ dark eyes widen and lips part in shock. While Hvitserk had only ever kissed her on the cheek as a friendly greeting, never had he done it in such light and gentle way that prompted goose bumps to rise on her arms.

Hvitserk then stood and cleared his throat, sensing the sentiment was not entirely reciprocated. He placed a broad hand on her head and ruffled the loose tendrils of hair that formed a crown. Freydis supposed that was his goodbye as he quickly hurried off, leaving his plate of food behind.

Her cheek tingled with the fresh sensation of affection and Freydis gazed at his retreating figure. There was no lust or aggression in the action, nor did he disrespect her boundaries; simply put, it was sweet. 

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Ivar had only watched long enough to see Hvitserk press his lips to his betrothed’s cheek in a way that was another but platonic, and to see the one person who was supposedly loyal to him not only allow Hvitserk’s advances but also stare after him.

Having emerged from his quarters to find Freydis once his legs had resumed aching, watching his brother attempt to woo his future wife was the last thing Ivar had expected. Hvitserk, like Freydis, was weak-willed and so it would not take much to bully his older brother from his possessions. Yes Freydis belonged to him, she had said as much the night Ivar snuck into the bathhouse to see her.

He doubted Hvitserk had touched her, kissed her or groped her in the way he had, but nonetheless it set a fire to his blood to see him press his lips to Freydis’ cheek. Nobody would separate her from him, not even Ivar’s own brother.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short :/  
> Hope you guys like it anyway!

Dinner that night was strangely pleasant, and Freydis found that Ivar was in an oddly good mood considering how pained his legs had been earlier on. Following her midday meal with Hvitserk, which had end with a kiss on the cheek, Ivar had hollered loudly for her. His legs ached once more and so Freydis hurried to his bedside to massage the twisted limbs.

Freydis had seated herself at the table before the Ragnarssons, though Aslaug had taken her place at the head of the table. Her fingers were laced together and partially hid the woman’s mouth as she stared down the centre of the table, deep into the brightly burning fire. Servants and slaves were beginning to bring cups and plates laden with food. Naturally Freydis’ had less meat than that of the royal family, as was natural in the hierarchical society of Kattegat.

“You did well to weather Ivar’s pains,” Queen Aslaug said dryly as an offhanded comment. “And you made it out unharmed too, which is a blessing.”

There was a hint of amusement in the Queen’s voice, which was not lost on Freydis. However it was sobering to imagine how easily Ivar would have lashed out, and she held no doubts that he would have at the slightest provocation. Dealing with him was like walking on eggshells. Though eggshells did not strike one across the face, as Ivar had done in his youth when Freydis was only beginning to learn how to ease his pains. He rarely resorted to violence as he matured, rather using nasty quips to hurt others instead.

“Thank you, Queen Aslaug. I only learnt from the best,” she replied, pandering to Aslaug’s doting love. Freydis was aware how the woman resented Ivar’s growing attachment to her and how it affected Aslaug’s relationship with her son, so deflecting the flattery to the Queen was the least she could do.

With a tight smile, Aslaug remarked, “It is a shame I cannot teach you everything.” 

It was clear to her what Queen Aslaug meant and that was she never intended to let Freydis assume all her wifely duties, in effect sidelining Aslaug in favour of Freydis.

“Of course not, you are his mother after all,” she whispered back, smoothing her tunic out. “I would never dream of taking your place.”

Aslaug smiled back at her, taking the girl’s words as a sign of defeat even if they were not intended to be so. While the Queen’s smile was placating, Freydis could not help but sense the brewing tension, not only between the women themselves but also between Ivar and his mother. He was growing too old to remain under his mother’s wing where he had grown up, and nor did he want Freydis as a replacement. So for his betrothed, her role was undefined and was to be worked at as they progressed.

Ubbe was the first to enter, alongside Sigurd, who took their seats opposite Freydis. The reeked of sweat and fish, suggesting they had spent the day fishing before the bay froze over for winter. Their mother greeted them coolly, as did Freydis, who gently quizzed them with small talk of the weather and the abundance of fish. She was not close to Sigurd nor did Ubbe feel entirely comfortable around the girl, so the atmosphere was slightly strained.

Eventually Hvitserk meandered in from outside the Great Hall, earning him a displeased glance from Aslaug. “You are late, Hvitserk,” she reprimanded before taking a deep drink from her adorned goblet.

His eyes betrayed his annoyance at the comment, though he said nothing and took his place beside Freydis, who immediately tensed up. It was a small movement but enough to have Ubbe raise his eyebrows and catch his younger brother’s eyes. Hvitserk mouth formed a firm line but he said nothing intially.

“How are you?” Hvitserk asked her in a low hum, to which Freydis nervously coughed into her hand. The air had only grown tenser with Hvitserk’s arrival and although only they knew why, the suspicion was beginning to grow in the others’ minds.

“Oh I am well, Hvitserk,” announced a voice behind Freydis that made her jolt and her voice seize in her throat. She immediately recognised the voice of Ivar and turned to see him crawling towards the table. In her staring, Freydis noticed how his muscles rippled beneath his tunic as Ivar moved across the ground.

Ivar hoisted himself onto the bench and swung his legs around the end of it and beneath the table. “Thank you for asking, brother, you are so considerate,” Ivar added in a sickly sweet voice with that charming smile that made her all weak at the knees. He then turned his attentions to Freydis who was seated between the two brothers, placing his hand upon the girl’s knee with a gentle squeeze. “And you, Freydis?”

“F-Fine, thank you,” Freydis stuttered, startled at his consideration. Rarely did he ever give her an affectionate gesture, particularly in public though she wouldn’t call it unpleasant. Rather it was a welcome surprise and Freydis settle under his touch, a smile present on her face.

Slaves entered with seared chickens, bread and what few grilled vegetables had survived the winter chill, setting them along the length of the table. The aromas were irresistible and Freydis had to admit the constant supply of food was one of the nicer perks of being engaged to a prince. She supposed none of them had gone hungry their entire lives.

Once the food was laid out the Ragnarssons languidly picked at the food, with Ivar eagerly snatching the best cut of meat for himself. Freydis’ plate was largely vegetables and bread, with a few stringy pieces of meat pushed to the side; however she had taken one of the only small slices of bread that was dashed with butter, a rarity in Kattegat.

The dinner continued in relatively quiet, disturbed only by Ivar and Sigurd incessant bickering to which both Freydis and Ubbe were forced to act as mediators between the rowdy brothers. During the night Ivar’s arm had snaked around her shoulders and pulled her in tight underneath the crook of his arm. She felt the flush of embarrassment as Aslaug eyed her son suspiciously over his affectionate behaviour.

Hvitserk pushed down the growing urge to fling Ivar’s tight grip on his betrothed off, as it looked more like a headlock than anything else.

“She does not look comfortable, Ivar,” Hvitserk finally said, piercing through the light tone that had encompassed the small but broken family over the course of the meal.

Ivar turned his glowing blue eyes to his brother and pulled Freydis a little closer to his side, sensing Hvitserk’s attempt at showing concern. He knew the girl beneath his arm was susceptible to the false kindnesses of others, particularly from Hvitserk who strained so hard to woo her with faux worry for her wellbeing. While he might fool Freydis, Ivar knew all too well Freydis was meant to be with him and no other man would suffice. None other could handle a Beserker like he could.

“She is plenty comfortable, Hvitserk,” Ivar hissed back, causing Freydis to shrink under his rising hostility. It was all too easy for him to misfire his frustrations onto her. Though as quickly as it appeared, the hostility evaporated. “Go and get me some ale, Freydis.”

His command was light hearted yet left no room for argument and so Freydis stood while Ivar’s hand slid down to her ass. The two brothers’ eyes locked, and whilst Hvitserk adopted an irritated expression, Ivar’s remained cocky. It was a clear game of possession that brewed tension in the atmosphere, and Queen Aslaug only added to said tensions.

“Ivar, I do remember you saying she was not a slave,” Aslaug said lowly in a half-joking manner that was down played by the bleariness of her eyes. “Have a servant fetch some ale.”

Ivar cast her a vexed look and hissed, “She is already up, so she can bring me some ale.”

“It is fine, Queen Aslaug, I do not mind,” Freydis said gently in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Bring me some ale while you’re up, Freydis,” Hvitserk added, which earned him an equally aggravated stare from Ivar. She could not help but feel caught between their brotherly rivalry but nevertheless slipped from the bench and Ivar’s wandering hand to the back kitchen which housed the ale.

When she returned, the brothers’ staring had only intensified and Ivar sullenly glared at Hvitserk over the rim of his stein has he down the ale. 

“Why not spend the night with me, Freydis?” He asked, causing both Hvitserk and his mother to splutter and choke on their drinks. “Just for warmth, Mother. I will not doing anything to her… Unless she wants me to, of course,” he purred into her ear, causing heat to rise up her neck in a humiliating blush. The last part was said so softly that none other than Freydis could hear, for which she was grateful.

Sigurd’s face twisted in disgust and he grunted, “The better question would be: Why would she want to spend the night with a cripple?”

Ivar launched his half-empty plate of food at his older brother, dousing him in animal fats and half eaten vegetables, and the stunned Sigurd awkwardly blocked the incoming plate, though it managed to clonk him on the head. He snarled back at Ivar, rising to his feet with fists pressed against the table.

“Sit down, Sigurd,” Queen Aslaug said irritably, voice drawn and unfocused as she stared at the expansive double doors of the Great Hall. In one hand she held her loyal goblet, fingers clutching it unsteadily. She seemed frustrated by the cyclical nature of her sons’ bickering. “Do not throw food, Ivar.”

Ivar suppressed the growl in his throat and stared Sigurd down as he slowly sunk back into his seat. Freydis sunk into his side in the hopes of calming him, and his finger curled so tightly around her upper arm that she feared vivid bruises would be left behind. 

Hvitserk glowered at him as their eyes met, Ivar’s cocky smile taunting him. He knew he had won, and it had not taken much at all. Ivar never thought of Hvitserk as worthy competition, but merely an obstacle that interrupted the full submission of his Beserker. And the way he made small circles on Freydis’ arm with his thumb belayed this to Hvitserk in a way that stung his throat.

By this point, all hopes of enjoying the meal were dashed, and Aslaug took another long drawl from her goblet to drown out the strain of family relations.

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Freydis had agreed to share Ivar’s bed for the night, though was concerned at subsequently sharing a room with the rest of his brothers. Nevertheless the thought of finally having a warm bed to sleep in was irresistible after many years on the cold floor with only her bearskin and goat hide to keep her warm.

Hvitserk did not approach her again that night, but skulked off into Kattegat for the night, likely to bed somewhere else until morning. He did not trust Ivar to keep his hands to himself and did not wish to hear him moaning into her skin as he took Freydis in the same room as him. She was a sweet girl and Hvitserk knew Ivar’s personality was not one to take ‘no’ for an answer. Much like a petulant child. But if she had chosen to go to his bed, then there was no stopping her.

She in turn slid into Ivar’s bed beneath the furs, careful not to invade his privacy as he nodded off on the other side of the relatively small bed. The furs were already soft and cozy from the heat of his body, and Freydis reveled in it. She removed her bearskin and gently laid it on the ground beside the bed.

Ivar turned towards her, eyes gleaming in the dark like those of a predator stalking its prey in the night. He coiled his arms around Freydis’ waist and jerked her close to him, until her ass pressed against his crotch and he could encircle her with his arms. Freydis resisted the urge to yelp at the sudden motion, fearing she would alert the other brothers to Ivar’s intentions. Hands hungrily roamed about her body, one groping at her breast and rubbing the soft mounds beneath her tunic. Her face lit up in hot embarrassment, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. As if continuing from that morning, he moaned into her messy plait of dark hair as one hand latched onto her hip bone and ground her ass against his hardening cock.

They were generating heat truly, though it was clear Ivar had not intended for them to share a bed for warmth only. Ivar’s hand snaked up her tunic and grasped her bare breast, fingers curiously gliding across her nipples until they hardened and she mewled gentle at the pleasurable sensation. Memories of his dream circulated through his mind and he dared to squeeze her breast until mounds of flesh appeared between his large fingers like the squeezing of a balloon. 

Freydis gasped and jerked away from his grip while his other hand snaked down along her smooth belly and towards the hem of her pants. His fingers eagerly searched for the cords that kept her pants clinging to that luscious waist of hers, only to be interrupted by a downy pillow launched at his head. It hit him square on the head and the owner of the pillow piped up.

“No funny business, Ivar,” Sigurd hissed through the gloom. “You are not being as quiet as you think you are.”

“Shut up, Sigurd. At least I have a woman in my bed,” Ivar snapped back in a hushed voice so as not to wake Ubbe, who would likely scold all three of them for their behaviour.

“Only because you are Mother’s favourite,” he replied and Ivar threw off the furs as if to lunge at Sigurd.

However Freydis turned to him and gripped his broad shoulders, quieting him down, saying, “Shh, Ivar. He is just trying to anger you, leave it be.”

Ivar groaned in frustration, and as Freydis continued to hold him still she could feel the strain of his muscles as he struggled to calm down. She instead reached up and once again gently scraped his scalp with her fingers, and he visibly slackened in his arms. It seemed that she had found the surefire way to diffuse his rage.

He finally settled and his breathing steadied as he drifted asleep, Freydis wound so tightly in his arms so tight she feared he might crush her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freydis and Ivar have a moment.
> 
> Hey bitches I’m back! Unfortunately updates won’t be consistent because uni is absolutely destroying me at the moment (hence why I haven’t had any time to write). Hope you guys are still interested though ☺   
> I wasn’t enjoying were this story was going in the last chapter, it felt very blasé and YA novelish to me, so I’ve done some reflecting on how to continue story, and hope you guys enjoy.

When the bay had begun to liquefy, releasing the ships whose owner’s were too slow to fish them onto the shore from their icy prisons, Gudmund and Earl Ygraf returned to Kattegat closer than ever. The were as thick as thieves and had raided together many times since their first visit to England together over fifteen years ago, but were especially friendly after Freydis had saved the Earl’s wife and child.

Since then Freydis had accompanied them on many of their notably shorter smaller raids that were approved though not sanctioned by Queen Aslaug, and as such did not reap the same benefits as the main raids. And by extension, it was not uncommon for them to raid separately in the spring and return to participate in the larger summer raids.

Sometimes, if she slept deep enough, flickering memories of the raids replayed in her dreams. Unlike the bleak hills surrounding Kattegat, England was lush and green. The grass was soft and silken beneath her feet, while birds and insects more beautiful then any in Norway danced upon the breeze in carefree abandon. But, on their account, it was all stained red. Memories corrupted by the horrifying sight of mangled bodies and earth churned up by the desperate battle for survival between Saxons and Vikings. 

It was less of a battle and more of a slaughter, really.

The smell of burning flesh and hair would never leave her mind, not for all the horror it imprinted in her skull. Beneath October skies, the landscape was scarred by her people who only knew how to take and destroy. That relentless need to dominate terrified her, as if rest from it would never truly come. As if it was somehow imbedded in the souls of every Viking.

Imbedded in her soul.

Freydis was jolted from her vague dreams, feeling as though some invisible force had driven the wind out of her. She felt her pulse flutter just beneath the surface of her skin, and a broad arm held her in place. Her dark eyes frantically searched the room for the assailant, straining in the dimly lit room until she realised it belonged to Ivar.

It took a few moments for her breathing to still before she gently peeled herself from under his arm. Freydis swung her legs over the edge of the bed and noticed the other brothers were still fast asleep, only small cracks of light breaching the covered windows. Though she had been sharing his bed for a few months now, and more than a few nights on the floor when his mood soured, it still felt foreign to Freydis.

Behind her, Ivar barely stirred, still looking peaceful in his sleep. A body to keep her warm at night wasn’t enough to keep the hollowness in her chest at bay after such dreams. It set a chill to her bones that no hearth could quell. 

Freydis tightened the cord around her pants and quietly stood to leave the room in favour of the fires that were likely already lit. A few slaves mulled around in the early morning, readying the hearth and sweeping out dust from the day before. It was like an organised hive that always seemed to make ample space around her as she moved.

Much like any other day, Freydis enjoyed a breakfast of the servants and tidied up after herself, hating the way the unleavened bread left a multitude of crumbs on her tunic. There was something uncivilized about mess that rubbed her the wrong way, and she strove to avoid it. 

The princes, and Ivar especially, rarely rose before noon, which left the girl with ample free time to sit and pursue her one passion: embroidery. Having planned to gift Ivar with a tunic for his seventeenth birthday, Freydis had threaded the elaborate outlines of the wolf Fenrir into a woolen tunic. Its body was a teal thread that had taken weeks to dye the perfect colour, and its single, gleaming eye was a tiny gold circlet. It caught the light at the right angle, just like the amber eyes of Fenrir himself. 

Freydis had only begun detailing the raised hackles of the beast when Queen Aslaug interrupted her peace. A knot of worry burrowed its way into her gut whenever the older woman approached, never sure if the queen would criticize or instruct her on Ivar’s care.

Her lips were drawn tight, and she barely glanced at the girl’s embroidery. “Freydis, my sons will be joining some of the other young men from town in some training,” she said tersely. “Ivar wishes to join them and I fear he may be disadvantaged.”

Ivar had already proven himself more than capable of defending himself a multitude of times, though it never stopped Queen Aslaug doting on her son like he was blind and deaf, as well as crippled. While she herself had never sparred with him, it was clear the way he handled his brothers that his disability did not hold him back as much as Aslaug believed.

“Of course, Queen Aslaug,” Freydis replied curtly, dipping her head in respect.

Queen Aslaug stared at her a moment longer before saying, “When was the last time you bled, girl?”

Heat flushed Freydis’ face and she awkwardly set the tunic on the table in front of her before turning in her seat to face the queen directly. Her heart stammered for a brief second, yet she managed to calm it.

“A week ago, I believe,” Freydis replied in as steady a voice as she could manage. “Ivar and I, we have not-”

“I do not care what my son chooses to do with you, only that you take care not to fall pregnant,” the woman replied. The tone might have appeared unfriendly had her blue eyes not softened at the corners for a moment. “Trust me, Freydis. Unplanned pregnancies only strain relationships.”

Freydis understood the implied meaning, as Queen Aslaug’s marriage had not been a particularly happy one. Ivar did not often discuss his father, though when he did it was a mix of contempt and awe, as if Ivar himself was unsure how to feel about his absent parent. 

Swallowing thickly, Freydis nodded in response, to which Queen Aslaug promptly left. Thankfully. She finally released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and went to pick up her embroidery once more. Though Freydis was no longer interested in embroidery.

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“Tighter, Freydis,” Ivar scowled. “I said tighter, woman! Do you not know the meaning of the word, you imbecile?”

As ordered, Freydis drew the straps of his leather breastplate tighter until he gave her a warning glace. Securing the straps with deft fingers, the girl chose to ignore is nasty words. Ivar was always more cruel around those he wanted to impress, so she said nothing and simply bit her tongue.

The other young men of Kattegat had already begun sparring, so Freydis gathered that falling behind them was itching at his nerves. She bit her lip gently, unsure of how much effort to offer.

“Shall I fasten your braces, Ivar?” She asked soothingly, though was quickly waved off.

“No, just hand me my bow,” Ivar grunted and held out his hand for his bow. Freydis knew he could reach the bow at the bottom of the stump very easily, though he hated anyone seeing how his legs affected him so. She bit back a sigh and did as she was told, already worn out from her betrothed’s attitude.

Clashing swords and axes illuminated the large training field in a flurry of noise and movement, with the Ragnarssons at the epicenter, as always. They were better skilled then their common folk counterparts, though that could be attributed to their better diets and more time spent training.

Exceptionally tall trees that towered over them like earthy giants shadowed the training field, and so it produced a chill in the air that Freydis did not fancy. Curling her fingers around the hood of her bearskin, Freydis pulled it up off her shoulders and over her head. The glass eyes were enough of a deterrent as they were eerily lifelike. 

Ivar began notching his arrows and shooting them at deer carcasses, gloating in his success as they landed less than a centimeter off mark every time. As spring had drawn closer, many chose to wear thinner tunics and lighter leather armour, which fell loosely over his broad shoulders as he drew back the bow. Not much could hide the strength of his back and arms, particularly when the arrows he shot pierced the width of the carcass.

“You did not tell me you had grown so proficient at archery, Ivar,” Freydis commented in a low, teasing tone. A satisfied smirk found its way to his lips, though it disappeared as he notched another arrow.

“Well, there isn’t very much for a cripple to do it Kattegat,” he replied coolly, though Freydis could tell from the lilt in his voice that her compliment had pleased him. This time he drew the string even further back, pushing out his chest to show off his physique. It was a knowing action, and Freydis couldn’t help but smile at the boyish way he showed off.

Sometimes during his harsh words, Freydis forgot he too was still young. She knew Ivar felt the strain of having to push twice as hard to reach the same end as his brothers, and it weighed heavily upon both of them. It weighed heavily upon his mother too, although her solution was to coddle him instead.

Ivar released the string of his bow, and the arrow sailed through the air and embedded in the carcass with a deep thud! that was heard by more than just the pair. That damned charming smirk that he wore when he was truly pleased made a rare appearance, and he offered his bow to Freydis with a silent challenge.

Taking it in her hands nervously, Freydis said, “I have not used a bow in many years, so do not laugh.” Freydis moved in front of him slightly to be in front of the carcass.

She knelt down for an arrow and stood to notch it, drawing back the string. Ivar’s hand snaked up Freydis’ back and squared her shoulder, while the other pushed her hip to be parallel to the bow. It lingered there for a moment longer, gently hovering over the curve of her hip bone, before sliding down her thigh and back to his side. His feather-light touches seemed to burn her skin, and the temptation to lean into his hand was irresistible.

Freydis’ dark eyes flickered away from the target for a brief second and her fingers slipped from their weak grip on the string, launching the arrow forwards. Jumping in surprise, she looked back to see the arrow sail out of range of the training field, beyond view.

A cocky laugh jolted her from her shock as Ivar grabbed her hips and shook her lightly. “You truly are terrible at this,” Ivar mocked with a hint of laughter remaining in his voice. However, it was difficult to tell if his joy was simply Ivar enjoying the superiority.

Regardless, Freydis enjoyed this side of Ivar, the carefree one that flashed handsome smiles, making her heart beat fast. His boyish grins were endearing and worth enduring Ivar’s moods for.

That gentle expression she wore made him uncomfortable, like a knot stirring in Ivar’s chest that he couldn’t seem to shake. Freydis stooped slightly to press a tender kiss against his cheek, barely brushing against his light stubble as she did. She turned her head and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth this time. It was so unlike how they had kissed before: rough and sloppy. Freydis’ lips lingered on his for a moment longer before she drew back, suddenly aware of how public they were.

Swallowing thickly, she handed the bow back to her betrothed. Never the one to engage in such gentle activities, Ivar drew back from her with the bow in his hands, already beginning to notch another arrow to avoid looking at her reddened face.

Tenderness was not in his nature.

They retreated to the seclusion of the treeline, and Ivar beckoned Freydis to the ground with him. Dirty and wet moss coated the ground beneath them as Ivar positioned himself between her legs, pressing his body weight into hers as his hands eagerly ran over the curves of Freydis’ body. He could not ignore the tension between them, though only this seemed to satisfy it for the time being.

Ivar pulled out her tunic from being tucked in her pants and snaked his hand up her bare waist, trying to feel under the linen that bound her chest. The other was above her head to hold up his weight while his lips furiously worked at hers. He sunk his teeth into her lower lip, reveling in the way Freydis’ body seized for a instant at the sharp pain.

Tasting the intoxicating metallic liquid dripping from her lip, Ivar pulled back his free hand and placed his thumb on the punctured flesh, smearing the blood over her mouth and jaw. With blown wide pupils and a sudden rush of lust at the sight of blood tainting her pale skin, Ivar took it upon himself to mark the skin of her neck.

Freydis whined and sunk her fingers into his soft, dark hair. The pain was sharp, though not enough so for her to pull back, especially with the husky sounds her betrothed was making. He moaned into her neck as she bucked her hips against his, a primal urge overcoming the pair as their wandering hands explored the other’s body.

While Ivar had really let Freydis touch him in such a way, he was strangely obliging as her fingers danced across his taut stomach and shoulders, lavishing in the rippling strength beneath. She felt up his back, noting the dip of muscles at his spine that made an irresistible indent straight down the expanse of his back. 

He wanted to know what was beneath those thin linen pants that seemed to hint at the mysterious curves of Freydis’ muscular thighs and ass. Ivar’s free hand ran down her side and to her ass, pulling it up slightly so he could cup it. It then travelled across her hip and down the length of her thighs, returning to her pelvis from the inside of her thighs.

Again, she tensed up, though this time her breath hitched. The clear words of Queen Aslaug echoed in the back of her mind about falling pregnant. It was no secret what men would usually ask for, and there was no shame for a betrothed couple to do what men and women do. Yet it still made the muscles in her legs tighten, trapping Ivar’ wandering hand before it could reach her womanhood. They had never strayed so close before, though Ivar was clearly feeling confident.

Ivar took her earlobe between his teeth and gave it a gentle tug, silently begging Freydis to let his hand roam that secret place between her legs. It was daring, and simply the thought of him putting his hands there made her well up with heat.

It was all too enticing, his hips already putting pressure on her pelvic area and his lips nibbling at her skin. Freydis felt wanted, needed even as he worked to win her over. Never was she the one with the power, and it was an intoxicating feeling. Slowly she willed herself to loosen her muscles and let his fingers press them self against her lips, over her pants. It was a foreign sensation as her explored the area, touching the gentle lips and harder bone beneath them. 

“Ivar, are you busy-” interrupted a voice, causing Freydis to immediately closer her legs and evict Ivar’s curious hand. Ivar recognised it as Hvitserk’s, conveniently not seeing that he was, in fact, very busy. A rumbling growl from Ivar immediately soured the mood as the sound reverberated across the skin of Freydis’ neck.

“What is it, Hvitserk?” He snapped, not making any motion to move from between her legs.

“Ubbe is starting a friendly competition,” Hvitserk replied. He made eye contact with a beet-red Freydis, eyes immediately drawing to the smear of blood on her lips. It was fresh and it coated her teeth as well, while her dark eyes were large with embarrassment at being caught. A pang of jealousy sparked in his chest, but he grit his teeth to ignore it. “He thought you might want to join, Freydis too.”

“Can you not see that I’m in the middle of something?” He hissed through clenched teeth. Freydis hated the way Ivar considered it something he was doing to her, rather than a mutual act. It made her feel small.

Hvitserk frowned slightly and puts his hands up in mock defense, saying, “Fine, have it your way Ivar.” He barely spared Freydis a cold glance before turning on his heel and walking back to the group of warriors.

Her face had been smeared with dirt and blood when Hvitserk happened upon the pair, and Freydis sighed deeply. The lust was gone and Freydis herself felt dirty as she tasted the blood in her mouth. Ivar peeled himself off her and flopped on the ground beside her, one arm still rested above her head.

The other he cast across his crotch, feeling that it was still only semi-hard. Biting back a groan of frustration, Ivar scrunched his eyes closed and cursed his twisted legs. Freydis turned her head to look at him, and then down to his crotch. She had felt it too, knowing he was not as hard as women had described men as being. 

“Ivar, you know I care for you more than anything else,” she said finally, hoping it was the right time. 

Ivar was silent for a long time before saying, “Because we are engaged. Because you have to.” The bitterness of his words leached into his voice, and Freydis rolled on her side to face him properly.

“I do love you, Ivar. Whether you believe me or not is up to you,” she said quieter, as if it were a coveted secreted held by only them. 

He said nothing in response, and Freydis felt her confession would go unanswered indefinitely. To a degree Ivar was right, that a part of her love was a sense of duty Aslaug had drilled into her as a child. Though the endearing side of him that was altogether vulnerable yet aggressive was something she couldn’t ignore. It was unexplainable, and perhaps she mistook some cues on his behalf as affection, but the was a tug in heart that was unmovable. 

Ivar stared up at the sky, wanting to believe her words while the clutter of insecurity clouded his mind. For once he was at a loss for words, and so for however long they laid on that forest floor, he was quiet.


End file.
